


Life After Death

by Makeira_Chan



Series: Life After Death Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depressed John, F/F, F/M, Gen, Grieving John, Guilty John Watson, M/M, Masturbation, Pining John, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Smut, basically just angst with a big load of smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-05-26 04:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14992514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makeira_Chan/pseuds/Makeira_Chan
Summary: They had both lost the man they loved three months ago. They may not have loved him in the same way but he did love Sherlock. Sherlock was the best friend he’d ever had. Some days he felt like he couldn’t even breathe without Sherlock, like his lungs just didn’t want to expand and contract to give him oxygen anymore. It was like he was unconsciously trying to follow after Sherlock. That is, when he wasn’t doing it consciously.It’s been three months since Sherlock jumped and John isn’t coping.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello fellow Johnlockers ☺ I’ve been sitting on this story for a while so I’m posting it in the hopes it will push me to keep writing it. This will be my second time posting Sherlock fanfic and I’d absolutely love any feedback or comments you may have. 
> 
> Now, please sit back, relax and enjoy the actual most angsty thing I have ever written.

The subway carriage rocked and trembled as it raced along its track and in the back of his mind John appreciated the trembling machinery as it worked well to hide the constant tremor in his left hand. That said, he still clenched it tightly, attempting to squeeze out the shakiness though knowing it would never work. The soldier let an irritated sigh go and he ran his right non-shaky hand through his hair trying to calm down a bit.

Today had been a trying day. Every day had been a trying day for the past few months. His whole life had been trying since Sherlock…

 _No_.

He ordered himself to stop that train of thought.

 _Don’t you dare think about it_ , _not now._

It had been three months and two days since what happened at Barts and John’s first time fully out of the flat. He hadn’t restarted his job at the clinic, it was still far too soon – it felt like it would always be too soon – but thankfully with the incident going around every headline in the country (and even a few out of the country) Sarah fully understood why and had only called him once to check in and let him know that his job was still waiting for him whenever he felt fit to return. He knew it was kind and thoughtful of her, but _my God,_ did he resent it. He had been resenting everyone lately. Every well-meaning phone call or condolence card he received felt like a stab in the throat. It reminded him of when he had been invalided home from the army. Everyone had treated him just like they were now, carefully and tactfully as if he were broken. All except one.

Sherlock had been the only one to treat John as the soldier he was instead of the cripple he appeared to be. The detective had no problem insulting him or recruiting him to fight crime. Sherlock had given him what no one else had been able to, or had even tried to do. He gave him a purpose. But now that was gone, because Sherlock was gone – still can’t say dead, he’s just gone, not dead – and John no longer knew what he was living for.

He was alone again.

Sure, he had Mrs. Hudson and Greg would still come round or invite him for a night at the pub but even that was becoming increasingly rare. He hadn’t talked to Molly since it had happened either. From what Greg told him the last time he’d come round to ‘check in’ (make sure John hadn’t offed himself) the young pathologist hadn’t spoken to much of anyone lately. She seemed to have completely withdrawn from everyone and began acting even more skittish and shy than usual. Not that John didn’t know why; he did. It was for the same reasons he had for staying locked up in his flat for months. They had both lost the man they loved three months ago. They may not have loved him in the same way but he did love Sherlock. Sherlock was the best friend he’d ever had. Some days he felt like he couldn’t even _breathe_ without Sherlock, like his lungs just didn’t want to expand and contract to give him oxygen anymore. It was like he was unconsciously trying to follow after Sherlock. That is, when he wasn’t doing it consciously.

He was startled from his thoughts when a body came into his peripheral view and sat down right next to him. He turned his head to take in the new occupant of the seat and saw a very pretty girl. She had dark brown hair tied into an intricate fishtail braid that blended nicely with her deep olive toned skin. Her eyes were round and bright, filled with a kind of young naivety that John hadn’t had himself in years. Maybe he had never had it.

“Hello,” she spoke carefully yet happily. He gave her a tight nod of the head before turning back to stare out the window. He realized he was acting rather rude and inside he was slightly ashamed by his uncharacteristic behavior but he really wasn’t in the mood to socialize right now – didn’t know if he ever would be really – and the fluorescent lights on the ceiling were beginning to give him a headache. He could see her shoulders slump slightly from the clear rejection but apparently she was more confident than he gave her credit for because she pressed on.

“My name’s Mindy.”

He turned back to look at her and when he saw the hopeful yet motivated look in her eyes he couldn’t help but play along.

“John,” he answered, maybe a bit more brusquely than he normally would’ve but she seemed pleased enough.

“I, well, I don’t normally do this. Approaching guys I don’t know I mean, but I felt like I would have regretted it if I didn’t say something to you.” John wasn’t really sure what to say to that, so he just said nothing and let her continue on after a short and slightly awkward pause. “It’s just that, you’re exactly my type and I was wondering if you’d like to grab dinner sometime?” John felt himself lost for words yet again. It’s not like he’d never gotten chatted up before – though maybe not this directly – and she seemed like a very sweet and lovely girl but the thought of dating again held no appeal. Though she was still giving him that innocent and hopeful smile and as he looked closer he could see that her hand resting on her leg was trembling slightly and her smile seemed a tad shaky as well.

She wasn’t nearly as confident as she projected herself to be.

As soon as he noticed her hidden anxiousness he felt a stab of guilt shoot through his stomach. There was no way he could outright reject her.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “yeah, that sounds good.” A bit of the tension in her body seemed to deflate at that, glad of the positive reaction and her smile got bigger and more genuine.

“Great!” It came out louder than she had meant it to and her face lit up a bright pink. “Sorry…” she apologized, still looking extremely bashful. Normally John would have found that cute, endearing even, yet now he just felt tired and he wanted to go home and curl up in his bed with his Browning tucked tight against his chest. “But that sounds great. Is it all right if we exchange numbers? Or I can just give you mine if you’d like.” She was definitely accommodating. She also seemed thoughtful and sweet.

The complete opposite of Sherlock.

John realized it was strange to compare Sherlock, whom he’d never been in a romantic relationship with to a girl that was hitting on him but it was just a natural reflex at this point.

He couldn’t help but compare everyone to Sherlock, and they couldn’t help but come up short.

“I’ll give you mine too. Here,” he handed her his phone and she dug in her purse briefly before finding and unlocking her own. It was in a bright pink case and his heart gave a violent twinge when he thought of the last bright pink case he had seen way back when him and Sherlock had met for the very first time. The string of serial suicides (or rather homicides) that Sherlock had almost been a victim of.

Why didn’t he see it then?

He had always known Sherlock had suicidal tendencies, it was something that was hard to miss with the way the man would throw himself into harm's way without a second thought but John had always assumed that was just to prove his cleverness. Make everyone see how genius he really was. He never thought that he might actually have a death wish.

Or maybe he had.

Maybe he had noticed but ignored it because that’s what they did, Sherlock and him. They just ignored things. Now John would give anything to get a second chance, a chance to not ignore it. A chance to change his last words he had said to him from the choked up accusation – _you’re a **machine**_ – to something else, anything else. Maybe then it wouldn’t have happened, if Sherlock’s own _best friend_ hadn’t lashed out and insulted him he may have felt he didn’t have to do it, didn’t have to go. Maybe if he had just been more supportive, more caring Sherlock would have felt safer, would have stayed instead of leaving him all alone.

But of course, instead of doing what any good friend would do he yelled at him, insulted him and than ran off.

“You alright?” He was startled back to consciousness by Mindy’s soothing voice and her wide eyes full of concern. He felt guilty about that, too. He didn’t deserve her concern, not when he was waiting anxiously for the train to stop so he could get away from her and society and the fresh air to go sit in his dank flat and contemplate putting his gun to use.

“Hm? Yeah, fine,” he grabbed her phone and typed in his name and number trying to ignore the pain that resounded in his chest every time he looked at the pink. After a few moments of silent typing they both handed each other’s phones back and smiled. Hers was beautiful and bright, naturally lighting up her face and making it seem as if she were radiating happiness, his was tight and forced, filled with guilt and self-loathing and empty promises.

The train stopped and he felt his body sway slightly with the force of it.

“This is my stop,” he told her. It was a lie. His stop was actually the next one but he didn’t think he could handle sitting with her and making small talk.

He hated himself for it.

She gave him an understanding smile and small wave; he noticed her hand was no longer shaky. “Yes, of course! Um, thanks for the number. I’ll call you later? Or text?”

“Eithers fine,” he probably wouldn’t answer her either way. Answering text messages or phone calls felt like a catastrophic amount of effort lately.

They both waved goodbye once more and then John left and found his way up onto the street. He walked the rest of the way to Baker Street and tried to ignore the empty, gaping feeling in his gut. It didn’t work.

\---

John was sat in his chair, a cold cup of tea next to him that had been ignored ever since he had gotten home. He didn’t even know why he made it. He knew he wouldn’t drink it. The only thing he’d been known to drink lately was whatever booze he happened to have lying around. He supposed it was habit; therapeutic in it’s own way. It was part of his old routine. At least that’s what Ella had said. He was used to coming home and making tea for him and Sherlock. He still always seemed to accidentally make two cups of it. Again, habit. Ella said that would eventually go away too, but John wasn’t so sure.

He took another swig of whiskey and delighted in the burning sensation it made as it slid down his throat. The flat was completely silent and it was slowly driving him mad. He had tried watching some stupid show on the telly but that idea had been immediately shot down when he couldn’t stop imagining Sherlock’s commentary on everything. He always acted annoyed with his flatmate whenever he would deduce the ending of the movie or which character was next to die in Game of Thrones but really he had always found it overwhelmingly endearing. He wished he had told him that. He wished he had told him how much he loved listening to him prattle on about how the show had gotten which details wrong. He wished he had told him how much he adored listening to him play the violin.

He missed the music Sherlock used to make, missed the flat being flooded with Beethoven and Bach and sometimes even Sherlock’s own compositions. He wished he could tell him all of that now. Wished he could tell him how much he would give (everything) just to hear him play one more time. Just to see him pacing around the flat complaining about boredom even though he had just solved a case. _God_ , he would give anything to have him here right now.

A heavy lump formed in his throat so he took another, longer sip of his drink to get rid of it.

He wished he could tell Sherlock everything that he missed and loved about him, say the things he had always been too afraid to say (was still afraid to say), but even more than that he wished he could take back everything he _did_ say. He wanted to take back every time he had called him heartless or inhuman. The thing he wanted to take back the most though was his very last insult, which just so happened to be the last thing he said to him before he went up on that bloody roof. He had called him a machine, except that couldn’t be true. Machines didn’t throw themselves off roofs. An image of glassy blue eyes and brown curls stained with red flashed in front of his vision and made his hand clench the glass and his left hands tremble worsen. Those eyes would haunt him forever; the ones that used to be so full of life and seemed to look right through you down to your soul had turned glassy and vacant. Those eyes had seemed all wrong on Sherlock’s face.

He took another drink and shook his head, partly because of the strong flavor and partly to shake the thoughts of his best friend out of his head. He needed to stop thinking about it; he needed a distraction. Out of habit John grabbed his laptop from where it rested on the coffee table and opened up his blog which had the exact opposite effect he had wanted it to have on him. He opened up the most recent blurb he had written which was from the 5th of October and grimaced slightly at the memory.

Greg had made a surprise visit one day and brought over a box of Sherlock’s things he hadn’t even known existed. It was full of junk mostly. Nothing of value or anything that even came close to explaining who or what Sherlock was. John had almost resented that box, full of meaningless possessions that did nothing except remind him of what he had lost.

The box wasn’t a complete disappointment though as he ended up finding a DVD.

It was one that Sherlock had made for him on his birthday, the year that him and everyone (a few of his old army mates, Mrs. Hudson, Mike, Greg, even Harry) had gone down to have dinner at a Chinese place in Soho. It was amazing actually and he let the pleasant memories of that evening wash over him. Everyone had gotten along perfectly. Talking, cracking jokes, reminiscing. Harry had even stayed away from the alcohol all night.

The only thing that had been missing was Sherlock.

He said he was ‘busy’ but John knew it was a lie. Sherlock just didn’t… fit in. He never blended well in group settings and John had always expected he had a touch of social anxiety – which sounded ridiculous. Sherlock spent his days questioning murderers and calling everyone around him a moron, how could he have social anxiety? And yet, whenever John would catch him in a social situation that had nothing to do with gruesome murders he would look so awkward and out of place and _unsure of himself_. The most awkward he had ever seen the man was when they had started a case for his old University mate Sebastian, and he used the term ‘mate’ lightly.

In truth, he had always been curious about what Sherlock’s life in Uni must have been like though once he caught a glimpse of it through Sebastian he realized he may not really want to know.

Even before he met the banker he had assumed Sherlock had been on the less popular side of the social chart though after meeting him he was absolutely sure of it. The barely concealed contempt was plain as day in the way Sebastian talked of the detective and the way Sherlock called him “Seb”, an expression that seemed strangely friendly for two people who seemed more like old enemies than friends. The memory broke his heart a little. It made him seem so much more vulnerable than he was used too, and that’s why he seemed so out of place in social situations. He was vulnerable and there was something unnerving about the usually aloof man being so uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

With a sigh John shut his laptop, picked up what was left of his whiskey and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Everything he did to distract himself just ended up having the opposite effect. There was nothing that he owned or any hobbies of his that didn’t remind him of his best friend. His blog was the worst; he didn’t even know why he thought it would be a good idea to go on it. He supposed it was just a force of habit; after all it was what he always used to do whenever he was bored or needed something to pass the time. But in the end the blog was written completely about Sherlock, so without the detective in the picture any longer it seemed almost pointless. True, he still had a fair few cases that he never got around to writing up and he might do that when it didn’t hurt to reminisce so much (if it _ever_ stops hurting), but other than that the blog was just a harsh reminder of the life he had lost along with his best friend.

He flopped down onto his bed dribbling some of his drink onto the sheets but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He couldn’t bring himself to care about anything at all as he closed his eyes and allowed sleep to take him, not even the gaping hole in his chest.

\---

The pavement was hard and cold as John ran across it, his bare feet seemed to find every jagged rock there was and he could feel the blood squelching between his toes. He wasn’t sure why he was barefoot but he knew it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except finding whatever he was looking for. He didn’t know what he was looking for either; he just knew he _had_ to find it.

Each breath burned his lungs and throat, the air was bitingly cold and felt like it was cutting his insides with every breath. The street he was on didn’t look familiar but he knew he had been there before. As the big building in front of him started to come into focus he understood why he knew he had been there before, in fact he had been there hundreds of times before. It was Bart’s hospital, though it looked different than usual. It looked older. The stones were cracked and the windows were broken, the building itself looked so sad, almost like it was dying. As he grew nearer he realized there was something lying in front of the building unmoving. He started to run faster; this was the thing he was searching for, he knew it! His heart dropped into his stomach when he recognized the long Belstaff and blue scarf the man on the ground was wearing. There was blood everywhere and although he had never been squeamish with that type of thing (he was an army doctor; he didn’t have time for squeamishness) he could feel bile rising in his throat and his skin crawling. He tried to get closer to the man he was now sure was Sherlock but his feet wouldn’t move. It felt as if there were some invisible force there with him holding on tight to the doctor’s legs and refusing to let him move.

“Please, let me through… he’s my friend…”

His voice came out weak and useless against the loud wind and the force still didn’t let up so he tried again.

“He’s my friend! Please, I’m a doctor!”

He continued calling out but the invisible force wouldn’t relent. A sharp buzzing filled his ears, he looked around frantically to try and find the source but there was nothing around him anymore. The noise kept getting louder and louder until it seemed as if it were splitting him open.

\---

John was woken up by a sharp crash. The sound felt ear-splittingly loud to him as he slowly open his eyes and roused himself from his whiskey-induced sleep.

His first thought was that Sherlock must have broken something while doing one of his experiments but that thought was instantly followed up by an achingly painful twinge in his chest.

He looked on the floor beside his bed and saw a shattered glass with a small puddle of warm whiskey coating the shards. That would explain the noise. He must’ve dropped it in his sleep.

 _Obviously_ , a voice that sounded heartbreakingly familiar in its gruff, posh baritone sounded in his head.

 _Obviously it wasn’t Sherlock_ , John’s own inner voice added. John sighed. He was sick of his inner dialogue. He desperately wished he knew of a way to turn it off.

 _I wonder if Sherlock ever felt like that_?

The thought felt like an extra stab to his heart, which he really didn’t need anymore of. Being mindful of the shattered glass and spilled alcohol on the floor he lifted himself up out of bed and made his way downstairs to the kitchen.

He sincerely hoped he had remembered to buy more ibuprofen, Lord knows he needed it now. He looked in the cupboards and it turned out he had thankfully managed to buy two new packets from Tesco his last shopping trip (though he’d already gone through about half the first pack).

As he swallowed the medicine and water combo he entered the lounge and after a moment or two of silent wallowing he picked up his phone that was furiously blinking with unseen notifications. Three new text messages awaited him. Wasn’t he popular this morning?

The first one was from Greg asking him round for a drink and company to watch the latest footie game at his place this upcoming Saturday.

He’d get back to that later.

It felt silly but he still held some resentment for the DI after everything that had happened a month ago. It was silly because John understood it really wasn’t Greg’s call in the end. He had been ordered to arrest Sherlock by his higher ups and it’s not like he could refuse that, but he still found it hard to fully forgive the detective. It still felt like a betrayal.

Moving on he checked the next text, which was from Harry. He outright deleted that one not having the energy to deal with her right now. She had never been a large fan of Sherlock in the first place (surprise surprise) and everything she said either came off as offensive or shallow. Her and Sherlock had only ever met the once and they had immediately butted heads, and surprisingly it wasn’t Sherlock that started it.

John had decided to invite her out to dinner with him and had managed to convince Sherlock to come as well. It was hard enough to get the haughty detective to agree to eat, much less to eat while meeting a new person but somehow John had managed. John had expected Sherlock to be his usual unbearable self throughout the night though surprisingly he’d put on his best behavior. John felt a smile form on his face as he remembered how Sherlock had actually complimented Harry’s outfit upon first greeting.

It had felt incredibly odd to hear Sherlock act nice and at the time it had filled John up with a grateful fondness but apparently the flattery had rubbed Harry up the opposite way.

She had snuffed her nose and immediately pointed out how, as a proud lesbian she didn’t need a _man’s_ approval of her looks. Sherlock had been understandably taken aback and was much quieter after that, as though hesitant to step on any other hidden landmines. That hesitance alone was out of character enough for the usually sharp-tongued detective and it showed John how much Sherlock really was trying.

That didn’t stop Harry though.

She’d seemed to have a personal vendetta against the younger man that night and apparently made it her mission to make the dinner as uncomfortable as possible.

By the end of it both Harry and Sherlock were shouting insults at each other and John was ready to wring her neck. Which, of course had led to another one of their huge rows. He later found out she’d only been so crabby that night because she had recently relapsed and was having a downright awful time not showing it to John. That little bit of insight had come from Sherlock later on once they had gotten home. John hadn’t the energy left to even lash out at him for it.

He shook his head and moved on. No point in dwelling on any of that right now. The third message surprised him as it was from someone he’d entirely forgotten about.

_Hello John! This is Mindy, from the subway. Was wondering if you’d like to get a coffee sometime?_

With a tinge of guilt John deleted the message. He felt bad about it, she was a nice girl and he was flattered that she’d taken an interest but he really wasn’t fit to start a relationship, messaging back would only be unfairly leading her on.

With all his messages checked and sorted (or rather ignored) John put his phone down. For a while he just stared at the empty wall in front of him, which of course was never a good idea because every _bloody_ thing in this flat seemed to now be a trigger for him and his eyes landed on the yellow painted smiley face that Sherlock had decorated with bullet holes.

John smiled slightly at the memory, though he was sure it came out as more of a grimace.

He remembered that night so well. Sherlock had of course been in another one of his strops and had stolen John’s gun from where the ex-army doctor had hidden it in his bedside table. John could still remember how his heart had raced in panic when he heard the gunshots. Memories of his time in Afghanistan had mingled with the fear that someone was using those bullets on _Sherlock_ and for the few moments it took for him to climb the seventeen stairs up to their flat he was sure he would be greeted with Sherlock’s bloody body when he opened the door.

_Sherlock’s head cracked open, spilling out all his blood, all his life. Just his pale body looking shockingly frail as it lay unmoving…_

_Shut up!_

John shook his head. He couldn’t let those thoughts in.

It had all been a false alarm anyway. Sherlock hadn’t been shot, he’d just been bored, though if you told that comparison to the man himself John was sure he would argue vehemently that both things were practically the same. In fact being bored would probably be far worse.

_At least getting shot would be **interesting** , John!_

John felt his lips curl up, the closest he’d come to a smile in ages. He could practically hear Sherlock whining on.

The smile didn’t last long though as he remembered what else had happened that night. He’d stormed out, went to Sarah’s and slept on the lie-low while at the same time 221B had been bombed (well, not exactly, it was the flat across from them but it was obvious it was only to get Sherlock’s attention).

That had been Moriarty’s first move.

He desperately wished he had known then what he knew now. Maybe if he had known how far the game with Moriarty would go he could’ve convinced Sherlock to be more careful.

John almost laughed at himself.

As if anyone could have convinced Sherlock to do _anything_ , much less ignore something as interesting as what Moriarty had offered. No, he couldn’t have done anything to change Sherlock’s reactions but he could have changed his own. He had made so many mistakes. He wasn’t there for Sherlock as much as he should have been. If he had just been there for him, if he had just let him know how much he really mattered John might still have his best friend.

A lump formed in John’s throat and he clenched his teeth before turning around and heading back to his room.

The day had barely begun and he was already desperate to end it.

\---

A few days later and John finds himself sitting on Sherlock’s bed with his gun laid out carefully in front of him.

He did this sometimes. Just sat and stared and contemplated. His hand itched to pick up the heavy hunk of metal and point it towards himself, to end it, to just put an end to all of this.

He didn’t really think he’d do it.

It was a nice thought, a damn tempting one at times, but John was never one for the easy way out. Though, just because he wasn’t going to go through with it didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the possibility of it. He lifted the gun up and looked it over. His eyes poured over every bump and ridge and dent memorizing it until he could picture it like the back of his hand. He raised it up until the tip was resting right against the soft flesh of his temple. His finger was brushing over the trigger as gently as he would caress a lover as he shut his eyes and imagined how it would feel to pull the trigger; to just _do_ it.

He wondered what he would feel in his last second after he pulled the trigger and sent the bullet flying into his brain.

Relief?

Glee?

Pride?

Fear?

Panic?

Nothing?

Wouldn’t that be just like him; to feel nothing as he dies. It would suit him perfectly. Like a bad joke with no punch line. His life being the bad joke that is.

He laughs to himself but it sounds bitter.

It takes him half an hour to finally open his eyes and put the gun away.

As he’s leaving the room it takes everything in him to fight the impulse to grab the gun and properly play out his fantasy.

\---

It’s dinner time in 221B and Mrs. Hudson has brought John up a plate of homemade shepherd's pie.

It smells delicious.

It looks delicious.                        

John, who has had Mrs. Hudson’s cooking many times before, knows it’s delicious.

And yet John has never been so unenthusiastic to eat something in his life. Actually, that’s a lie. When he came home from the army and lived in that God-awful bedsit his appetite was virtually non-existent. He knows he’s not eating enough as of late. His jumpers are loose on him and he’s needed to start tightening his belts more than he usually would. He’s not trying to lose weight, eating just seems so unimportant now.

He almost laughs at the irony.

He spent so much time lecturing Sherlock on his horrible eating habits and now here he is doing the same thing.

It’s that thought that pushes him to lift up the fork and take a bite.  It tastes great, just as can be expected of Mrs. Hudson. The potatoes are smooth and creamy and the meat is tender and savoury and the vegetables taste sweet.

He takes five bites and after that he’s not so much eating it as he is playing with it. He tries to take a sixth bite but it doesn’t even make it to his mouth. John drops the fork in defeat before grabbing some plastic wrap to put over the remains of his meager meal.

\---

John thought that the first text message would be the last he’d hear from Mindy, and it’s for that reason that he finds himself being surprised when he hears the phone ring and he see’s Mindy’s name displayed on the small screen. On instinct he goes to answer but stops himself just in time. If he ignored her text he should ignore her phone call.

He waits for the ringing to stop and a few seconds after that his phone chimes letting him know he has a voicemail. He considers just deleting the voicemail without listening to it but in the end curiosity and pity get the better of him. He at least owes it to her to listen to her damn voicemail, besides it’s not like he has anything better to do.

_Hello John! Um, this is Mindy again, from the subway? Not sure if you remember me or not._

At this point she gives a small giggle, though it sounds awkward.

_I sent you a text but I’m not sure if you got it. Would you mind just giving me a call back when you get this? Or a text, whatever you want!_

She gives another unsure laugh, though it sounds even more nervous than the first one.

_Well, I guess I’d better get going! I’m looking forward to hearing from you. Bye!_

John lowers the phone from his ear and sighs. He feels like shit. What is he even doing? Here is a lovely, young girl chasing after him and he’s ignoring her calls.

It’s pathetic.

Why is he even avoiding her in the first place? He’s acting like a grieving widower for Christ’s sake!

Would one date really hurt? It would give him both some human contact and an excuse to get out of the flat, and God knows he could desperately use both of those things.

 _Okay_ , he thinks. _I’ll call her back, apologize for missing her text and plan a date. I can at least give it a chance and if it doesn’t work out that’s fine._

With his decision made up he re-opens his phone and dials her number. It barely takes two rings for her to answer.

 _“John?”_ Her voice sounds so shy and hopeful.

 

“Hullo, Mindy. I, uh, got your voicemail.”

“ _Oh thank God!”_ she breathed out, relief filling her voice. “ _I was worried you had decided against getting together._ ”

 _That would be because I did_ , John thought privately. He of course wouldn’t tell her that though.

“No, no of course not. I’m looking forward to it.”

“ _Me too! Would Monday work for you? I know a great Greek place that’s pretty cheap_.”

“Uh, well…” he hesitated slightly which seemed to send her into a small panic.

“ _Oh, sorry! That was presumptuous of me. You can set the date if you want? Or, you know we could just… Play it by ear?_ ”

“No, it’s not that, Monday works fine I just have something to do between two and three.” The ‘thing he had to do’ was actually his therapy appointment, but somehow that didn’t seem like a good thing to mention when planning out a first date.

“ _Oh,_ ” she sounded so relieved that John felt himself become more relaxed by default. “ _Okay, of course, that’s fine! How about, say, four? Just in time for an early supper?_ ”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Four works.”

She told him the name of the restaurant they would be meeting at, thankfully one John had never been to before so there was no chance of residual Sherlock memories, and they talked for about fifteen more minutes before hanging up. All in all it was a rather successful phone call save for the bit of messiness at the beginning and John even felt a small trace of what might have been excitement fill him.

He could do this. He had a date, with a gorgeous sweet girl and he was excited about it.

\---

John shot up in his bed, his breath was ragged and he had a cold sweat covering his body. His whole body was shaky with residual fear from his most recent nightmare.

This one had been a strange mix of Afghanistan and Sherlock mixed together and it had done a wondrous job of knocking the breath right out of John.

\---

Brown. Brown was everywhere in this room. The couch, the chairs, the desk in the corner, even the walls were painted a pale beige. Sherlock would do a full psychoanalysis based on the colour choice. He’d dissect Ella’s whole personality just from her choice of office colour; he’d suddenly know her whole childhood and all her traumas in life from the colour. John however, couldn’t do any of that, so instead he just stared at the awful bleak brown colour and did everything he could not to look at his therapist.

“How have you been?” Ella spoke, trying to get him to share with her. Share his emotions, his thoughts, his feelings. The problem was that John didn’t have any to share.

He tore his eyes away from the dark brown sofa and met her gaze. He made sure his hands were placed casually on the arms of his chair and he adopted an easy smile on his face. The last thing he wanted was for Ella to start calling him out on his defensive posture.

“Good,” he made sure to avoid the use of the work “fine”. That was practically a trigger word for therapists. “Yeah, I’ve been… Good.” Ella nodded as if this was somehow insightful to her.

“Good is an improvement. Have you attempted to get out of the flat since we last met, like we discussed?”

“Yeah, actually. I did.” She seemed impressed.

“That’s great.” She leaned in slightly, looking at him with what seemed like genuine interest but was most probably just a mask she had finely honed to seem more sincere during her therapy sessions. After all the more comfortable a person was the more likely they were too spill all their deepest thoughts to you. “Where did you go?”

John thought back to the last day he’d bothered to venture out of the flat. “I went to go visit the grave. _His_ grave.” His voice cracked a bit and Ella’s professionally neutral smile turned down slightly at that.

“John…” She started, “I know it’s hard to move on. Sherlock was a big part of your life,” he grumbled slightly at this but she ignored it and continued on. “He will always mean a lot to you. Nothing can ever take away what he was to you but if you ever want to move on, properly move on and heal yourself you need to start separating yourself from the memories of him.” He couldn’t hold back the scoff that seemed to tear itself out of his throat.

“It’s always hard to separate yourself from the pain of losing a loved one. I’m not saying to forget him completely, you’ll always remember him but you can’t let that stop you from living your life. Find new people, make new memories. You need to find it in yourself to move on John. He would want that for you.” John felt rage shoot through him.

“Stop.” His voice was low and wavered slightly. “You don’t know what he would want. You didn’t know him, no one did.”

“But you did?”

“I thought so, yeah. But I suppose I was wrong, wasn’t I? Because if I did he wouldn’t have ended up with his head smashed in, would he?” His voice was bitter and hostile. Full of all the self-loathing he had been marinating in since Sherlock had left him.

“Whether you know someone or not you are in no way responsible for their actions John. You couldn’t have known what was going to happen that day.”

“I could have! That’s the whole point. If I had just seen--“ _That’s your problem John, you see but you don’t **observe**. _ John stopped talking. Sherlock had always told him that and it was so true wasn’t it? If he had just opened his eyes and not just looked but actually _payed attention_ he would have seen it. He would have known and he could’ve done something. But instead he was just oblivious. Why was he always so oblivious?

“John?” Ella called out, seemingly concerned at his sudden pause.

“Nothing. Forget I said anything. It hardly matters now does it?” It didn’t. Sherlock was gone and John would never get another chance to do something about it.

“Of course it matters John. You’ve just lost someone close to you in an extremely traumatic way. Of course you’re going to have feelings about it. But you need to know it’s not your fault. You didn’t have any control over the situation or Sherlock’s actions.”

“Yeah, right. Sure.” His left hand had started shaking again and forgetting about trying to keep a front up in Ella’s presence he clenched it tight _one, two, three_ times. Open, close, open, close, open, close. He did this over and over and he didn’t know why he even bothered because it never bloody helped and his hand was _still_ shaking.

“What are you doing today? Do you have any plans to get out of your flat?” Ella redirected the conversation. John went back to being silent. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell her about Mindy. He knew it would get her off his back about ‘moving on’ and ‘meeting new people’ but he didn’t want to mention it because then he would have to tell her when it inevitably fell through. And John had no doubt it would fall through. He had never been good at keeping in touch with people before he had met Sherlock and lately he had reached an all new low at it. But considering his only options at the moment were talking about it and redirecting the conversation somewhere less painful or not talking about it and sitting here for another thirty minutes while Ella continues to ask more and more probing questions he felt himself somewhat backed into a corner. _Oh, sod it. I’ll just fucking say it._

“Yeah, actually. I’m meeting with someone.” Ella smiled at that, clearly not expecting him to answer.

“That’s good John. Who is it? The DI from Scotland Yard?”

“No, someone new actually. We met on the tube the other day.” John found himself irritated by how pleased Ella looked at this new information.

“I think this is just what you need John. Someone new to take you out of your head. A distraction can be very helpful in times like these.”

“Mm. I don’t think it’ll work out though.” He felt a sick pride when Ella’s smile faded slightly.

“Why not? You’ve not even met up yet so how can you know if it will work out?”

“I don’t think I’m really in a place for starting a new relationship. I just don’t see it working out.” Ella didn’t respond and seemed to process this for a moment, looking at John as if she was solving a puzzle. It reminded him vaguely of how Sherlock used to stare at him, like he was some great problem that needed figuring out. It was different now though. John had never minded when Sherlock looked at him like that, though he knew other people tended to find it rather uncomfortable. When Sherlock stared at him he felt like he was worth something. Like there was something in him worth taking a better look at. How Ella was staring at him now felt entirely different. It made him feel like something was wrong with him, a broken cog or a loose screw somewhere in the machinery and Ella was just trying to find where exactly it was broken and how to go about fixing him. Her stare made him feel defective.

“You have a tendency towards self-sabotage. Did you know that?” Ella’s voice was calm and lined with the total certainty of someone who had full confidence in what they were saying. She spoke as if she had John completely figured out. John felt himself clench his teeth at that thought. There was only one person who had ever really known John, and it certainly wasn’t her.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He nearly growled through gritted teeth. So much for not showing any signs of defensiveness.

“Yes, I think you do. You just don’t want to admit it.” She waited for him to add something but when he didn’t she just continued on. John wished she hadn’t. “You have a tendency to sabotage good things that are happening to you before they have a chance to go bad themselves.”

“No, I don’t. I just know when to muck something up as a bad job.” His hand is back to flexing. Open, close, open, close, open close.

“Really? Because that’s not what I see.”

“Yeah? And what is it you see, exactly?” He’s smiling now, the smile that he used to use whenever he was in an active war zone or fighting with his completely mad flatmate. _Open, close, open, close, open close._

“I see a man who is scared to move on. Someone who isn’t ready to disconnect from his old way of living. It’s natural, John. It’s natural and it’s normal, but it’s not healthy. Sherlock is gone and you need to accept that. There is no sense in sabotaging the rest of your life in penance for something that wasn’t your fault in the first place. You can’t go on punishing yourself for another man’s actions. I’m sure that’s not what Sherlock wanted for you when he made his decision.” A heavy silence follows her mini-monologue and John is just left staring at her, his mouth opening and closing as if to send something back her way but no words leaving his mouth. _Opencloseopencloseopenclose._ Actually, he’s not even sure if he’s even breathing at this point. He’s angry. _Furious._ She’s a bloody _therapist._ Her job is to _help him_ not _criticize_ him, and why is she so insistent on him ‘moving on’ in the first place? It’s barely been two months since he watched his best friend _leap off a bloody building,_ he thinks he deserves some time to take that in. He is still gaping at her and stewing in his own pissed off thoughts when she picks the one-sided conversation up again.  

“What did you want to say, John?” Her voice is perfectly calm and peaceful which makes his clipped off growl sound even more aggressive by comparison.

“ _What?” **Opencloseopencloseopenclose.**_

“To Sherlock. You said there were things you had always wanted to tell him. Tell him now.”

“What?” John repeats, and realizing that he sounds like a broken record and is going to send this conversation in a rather circular direction he decides to add to it. “I—no. No. I’m not doing this right now.”

“Why are you so scared of letting go John? What are you clinging to?”

“I’m not scared, alright!” He wasn’t. He was a bloody _veteran of war._ Being upset over losing your best friend was not even related to being some sort of scared coward.

“Yes, you are. You’re scared John. You have been for a long time. You were scared of telling Sherlock how you felt than and you’re still scared to say it now. Conquer that fear John. Let it out.”

“I’m _not scared_ , dammit! I just lost my best friend, the man I bloody _loved_ and I am entitled to feel a bit of fucking depression over that, alright? Is that okay with everyone?” He was so bloody sick of it. Of everyone telling him to just get over it, to move on, to let go. You didn’t move on from Sherlock Holmes. There was no such thing. John knew that he would always sort his life with Pre-Sherlock memories and Post-Sherlock memories, and how in the bloody sodding _hell_ do you just move past that?

When he calmed down his mental rage to actually focus back to the present situation he saw that Ella was smiling. Bloody fucking _smiling._

“What?!” He growled again, throwing his hands up in the air. He was pretty damn sure therapist’s weren’t supposed to smile as their clients had mental fucking breakdowns.

“You said it.”

“Said what?”

“What you always wanted to tell him. What you’ve been holding back.” John thought back to what he had just said trying to move past the blind anger he felt at the moment. He didn’t remember saying anything particularly enlightening. Just stated the obvious really. His best friend, the man he loved had died and—Oh. Loved. The man he loved. _Lovedlovedlovedloved._

All at once he felt his body sag, every trace of anger leaving him until he felt like nothing more than a sack of human blood and flesh slumped on an ugly brown chair. He felt like an idiot. He was so tired of needing other people to point his own feelings out to him. God, what did Sherlock ever see in some washed up army doctor who didn’t even realize he was in love with his ruddy best mate? All at once it was too much. Everything was just _too bloody much._ He needed to go. Go somewhere, anywhere other than here. He stood up and Ella startled across from him.

“John?”

“I’d better go. I think we should end this session early.” Ella seemed to contemplate this for a moment, her calm stoic expression she had perfected for her career placed perfectly on her face and John hated it. He hated her and her passive fucking expression and her annoying invasive comments. He was so tired of people digging around in his head, acting like they knew everything about him. He felt violated and vulnerable and like he just wanted to run away and get out of here.

“John, why don’t you just sit down. There are still ten minutes left in the session and I think it’s important to go over this new breakthrough together—“

“New breakthrough? You mean me admitting that I love my best friend? That I love him and I bollocksed it up completely because I was too bloody _stupid_ too just notice it when he was still here? When I could have done something about it.” He laughed but it was low and bitter and made Ella shift in her chair. “Yeah, no thanks. Ta though. As much fun as it sounds to go over _that_ I think I’ll pass.”

“John!” Ella called for him again but by that point he was already walking out the door.

\---

Usually John would take the tube home from Ella’s but this time as he stormed out of her building and down the street he ignored the underground completely in favour of walking. It was a bit of a long jaunt but he figured he could bloody well use it right now. He was fuming. He was angry and hurt and his chest was tight and his eyes prickly and hot. What was the point of therapy if you left it feeling more like shit than when you got there? And that’s really saying something considering John had been in a near constant shit mood for the past three and a half months.

In retrospect it was obvious how he felt about Sherlock. He should’ve realized it the first day they met when John hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from his lips. After they had gone to dinner and John hadn’t been able to resist flirting with him. After they had raced around London only to get back to Baker Street, laughter and breathless words passed between each other until Angelo came with his ruddy cane. Sherlock had cured his depression and his limp in a single evening. Of _course_ John was in love with him, the bastard. John had been head over arse in love with Sherlock from day one.

A scared voice resounded from the back of his mind and tried to cover up that thought but John didn’t have the patience for that voice anymore. The one his father had put there that popped up whenever he had a not-so-straight thought. Back when he was first seeing Ella on a frequent basis she had explained it as something called internalized homophobia. He had hated that at first, thought it was a load of bollocks. He wasn’t homophobic, the very thought of hating someone for such a shallow reason made him instantly feel anger and guilt and yet as he thought about it more and more it made a lot of sense. Growing up with a dad like he had, who had lost it every time he did something that seemed the least bit queer, it was a tad hard not to get some of that in your own head. Yet he found that the programmed reaction to deny any queer or debatably homosexual feelings had been slowly fading from him ever since Sherlock… left. He found that he really couldn’t deny it with a weak outburst of ‘ _I’m not gay!’_ anymore, and after that session with Ella he suspected he would never be able to say that again.

God, he was such a clog. How many times had he vehemently denied him and Sherlock being anything more than mates? It was so embarrassing now. He must have looked like a right prick. He _was_ a right prick. Though he supposed one of the reasons he had always insisted him and Sherlock weren’t a thing was because he found the very notion completely unbelievable. Not on his end, obviously, but rather on Sherlock’s end. Sherlock was brilliant. Gorgeous, passionate, funny, even charming when he wanted to be. Sherlock was like a hurricane, a true force to be reckoned with and what was John? A washed up old vet with nothing but a crummy bedsit, a psychosomatic limp, a raging case of PTSD and an estranged sister he never spoke to. John hadn’t stood a chance and he wasn’t delusional enough to think otherwise. John had always been amazed that Sherlock had even bothered to look at him. He found that even while they were living together, working together he was always waiting for Sherlock to grow bored of him. To finally get tired of the old, broken army doctor and move on. Maybe find a new flatmate. Someone younger, prettier, more interesting. Less damaged. This had never happened of course and now he supposed he would never find out if it would have. John still didn’t know if this was a blessing or a curse.

Before he knew it he was standing in front of Baker Street, right outside of Speedy’s café. He looked through the window and saw Mrs. Hudson talking to some older bloke. John felt a small bit of relief as he stepped through the doorway to Baker Street that he wouldn’t be running into his landlady. He was exhausted and emotionally drained. He had already been so horrible to her since Sherlock had left, snapping at her or ignoring her and he couldn’t take the guilt if he lost his temper with the well-meaning woman today.

He went straight up the steps to the flat and didn’t stop until he reached his chair and plopped down with a soft _plunk._ My God was he tired. He didn’t want to do anything today except lay in this chair and maybe have a drink. Come to think of it a drink sounded bloody fantastic right now. His eyes wandered over to the small clock on the mantel and felt a small self-deprecating chuckle sneak past his lips. Ten after three and he was already getting ready to drown himself in whiskey. Well, he supposed it was close enough to Happy Hour to not be a complete lush, and today did call for a bit of liquid help. He couldn’t shake a little itch in his mind that told him he was missing something though. By god, when wasn’t he missing something? It seemed like John was constantly just bumbling his way oblivious through his own life until someone else pointed the important bits out to him. No, this time he could damn well figure it out himself. What day was it? Monday, because he had his appointment with Ella. He didn’t usually have anything set on Mondays but… Oh. Right. He was meeting with Mindy at four. He didn’t want to go at all. Every particle in his body wanted to stay glued to this chair and cocoon the day away with bad telly and good scotch, but he knew he had too. He had promised and he didn’t want to actually hurt the girl. He may not be after anything serious with her but he didn’t want to be cruel either.

With a last breath of encouragement he peeled himself of the cozy chair and padded slowly towards the bathroom. He splashed his face with some icy cold water, hoping to make his body feel slightly more invigorated and less like a walking corpse. He hadn’t had  a proper sleep in weeks and it showed all throughout his body. His clothes were loose from having lost a significant amount of weight and he hadn’t shaved in a long time. He looked haggard. He sighed. God, what did a pretty young thing like Mindy even see in a dried up old thing like him? He looked at himself in the mirror and decided he should really change before he left. He was hardly dressed in date attire and with his utter lack of self-care lately he could use all the help he could get. He left the bathroom and headed to his own bedroom but found himself pausing outside of Sherlock’s room. He stopped and just stared for a moment at Sherlock’s closed door.

In moments like these it was far too easy to imagine that Sherlock was just behind this door. It was too simple to trick his mind into thinking that day at Barts’ never happened and his best friend was just locked up in his room in one of his infamous strops over a lack of good cases. Sometimes he even liked to imagine the detective had finally given into his dreaded transport and allowed himself to get some much needed sleep. John closed his eyes reverently and allowed the all too comforting image from in his mind of Sherlock pacing the room filled with restless energy only too inevitably collapse onto his soft mattress and fall into a deep sleep tangled in his posh, cushy blankets. It felt so real in that moment that John swore he could hear the sound of his friend rolling around in a sleepy attempt to get more comfortable or the deep breathing or soft sounds he would make in his REM cycle. With his eyes still shut John stepped forward and gently turned the door handle, only opening his eyes after he had fully stepped into his friends room. When he opened his eyes they immediately darted to the bed, searching for the familiar sleep-ruffled form he had so expertly tricked himself into believing he would see, Of course, he didn’t. All he saw was a neatly made bed which was painfully empty and had been for a very long time.

Without really thinking about it, John crawled into the ridiculously soft bed and wrapped himself in the smooth high thread count sheets Sherlock was so fond of. He buried his face into the fluffed up pillow and allowed himself to breath in the scent of expensive shampoo and something else he had only ever been able to describe as Sherlock. Sherlock’s scent had long since faded from the rest of the flat, even his bedding was beginning to lose the comforting fragrance John had only ever associated with his friend. The scent smelt like home. Of warmth and familiarity. John dreaded the day when the smell would eventually fade from every corner of the flat and would effectively take away the last real piece of Sherlock he had. His last true piece of comfort. Of home. Those thoughts however did nothing to dissipate the aching pit of nausea and grief weighing down his stomach, so for just a moment he pushed all the sad, spiteful and angry thoughts aside and just allowed himself to breathe in the comforting smell. As he relaxed a bit he even indulged himself in the fantasy that when he opened his eyes and got up to get ready everything would be back to normal and Sherlock would be there for real.

\---

He wasn’t entirely sure when it had happened but at some point John had drifted off. He woke up to the sound of his phone going off and as soon as the foggy haze of sleep had worn off he leapt up, his heart racing with panic. _Shit_. He raced for the phone and berated himself for falling asleep. He must be so late. Or had he completely blown Mindy off? _Shitshitshit!_ What time was it even?

John yanked his phone off the arm of the chair where he left it and was surprised to see it wasn’t Mindy who was calling him but Greg. He felt himself relax even further when he looked at the time and found it was only quarter to four. He had only slept for around a half hour than. Thank god. Ignoring the call from Greg for now he ran up to his bedroom got dressed in more suitable clothing in record time and grabbed his phone and wallet before shooting out the door and hailing a cab. He had been planning to take a tube to save money but he no longer had the time for that. He impatiently snapped the address Mindy had given him to the cabbie and tried not to feel like a complete arsehole as they sped of.

\---

Somehow on the way there the cabbie had managed to hit every single red light possible. John was a complete ball of anxiety and irritation by the time they arrived at the Greek place and he tossed the money none-too-gently in the mans direction before bursting out the car and near diving into the restaurant. The hostess greeted him at the door, a pretty young woman with black hair and red lipstick and asked him if he had a reservation. He told her he was just meeting someone, his eyes never once glancing at her, too busy trying to find Mindy in the crowd of seated patrons. Just as the hostess was asking who’s name the reservation was under and John realized he had no clue what Mindy’s last name was he spotted her at a lonely table near the back and waved. In less then a minute she had found her way to him and was explaining it to the hostess who said someone would be with them in a moment to take their orders.

“Hi.” Mindy said, her soft feminine voice entangling with a small giggle as she looked at John happily.

“Hello.” John smiled back, still feeling a tad out of breath from his rush but starting to relax now that he was here.

“I almost thought you weren’t going to show.” She looked bashful and a bit pink in the cheeks from embarrassment. John felt like such an arse.

“I’m so sorry. I—well. I lost track of time.” He figured that saying he fell asleep on his dead best friends bed while he was in a state of extreme ennui because he’d had a row with his therapist may have made a bad impression.

“Don’t worry about it!” She assured him with an easy grin. “I’m just glad you made it. It would have been a tad awkward to get stood up considering I’ve been rattling on about our date to the owners all week.”

“You know the owners?”

“Mm-hmm. They’re good friends with my parents.” John nodded and moved to speak again but was suddenly assaulted with a memory.

_Murder charge?_

_Mmm. Sometime last spring I managed to convince the police that Angelo was in a completely different part of the city - carjacking._

John felt his face pale and he went quiet. God, he couldn’t even go through one dinner without Sherlock implanting himself in his head, could he? Everything seemed to be a Sherlock-trigger word. What was he even doing here? He knew this wasn’t going anywhere. It couldn’t. Because John was in love with his best friend, not some kind, beautiful girl who invited him to Greek restaurants.

“Hey… Is everything alright?” He looked back up and took his head out of his arse to find Mindy staring at him, her large doe-like eyes filled with concern.

“Yeah, fine. Ah-hem. Sorry about that. Just got kind of lost in thought.” He chuckled to try and lighten the mood but it sounded force and gravelly. She reached over and placed her small, soft hand over his.

“Are you sure? It’s fine if you’re not. We can always leave and try this again another time.” He felt so undeserving of her kindness. Here he was, sitting in front of her thinking of how it would never work between them and she was doing nothing but being sweet and comforting.

“It’s fine really. I just got distracted by something. I’m glad we’re here.” He turned his hand upwards so it could gently wrap around hers and he smiled, much more convincingly this time. She seemed somewhat mollified by this answer and redirected her attention to the menu, telling him what all the best things were.

For the first time since he had entered the restaurant he actually truly looked at her. She really was incredibly pretty. When he had first met her on the tube she’d been dressed casually, her hair pulled back and not a lot of makeup on. Now she was trying to impress. She had a short flowy turquoise sundress that complimented her darker skin tone nicely and wrapped around her snuggly, showing off her slim figure. Her dark hair was pulled up into a pretty braided bun with a few curled strands falling down. The hairstyle made her small features and slim neck stand out more and her ears twinkled with the small diamond rhinestones adorning them. Her makeup was still kept simple, nothing overdone or clown-y. Instead she used a small amount to highlight her features and make them pop.

“You look lovely.” John found himself blurting, accidentally cutting her off as she went on about the desserts. She looked up at him, startled, and he was gratified to see a bright smattering of pink dusting her cheeks.

“Oh.” She said quietly, dipping her head down low. “Thank you.” She lifted her head back up and looked in his eyes with a new found determination that reminded him of when she first introduced herself on the train. “You look handsome. I think you’re the only man I’ve ever seen successfully pull of that colour jumper.” Her smile is mischievous now, clearly teasing and John finds himself grinning in turn. His jumper is indeed a unique colour, sort of an odd mesh between purple and dark green. Sherlock had hated the thing, damn near burnt it on a Bunsen burner once while John had been at the clinic, luckily John had come home just in time to snatch it off the flame.

“I’m going to choose too take that as a compliment.”

“Good. It was meant as one.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and flitted her eyes almost nervously down at the menu, a small fluttering smile still stretching her lips. “To you at least. Not to the jumper.” John laughed which seemed to make her shoulders loose some of their tension.

“I’m proud of my hideous jumpers, ta very much!” Just then when they’re both giggling and smiling at each other the waitress (an older woman with a frumpy figure and frazzled ginger hair) comes and says she’s there to take their order. John let’s Mindy order for them both with whatever she recommends and the waitress writes it down though she seems to be paying more attention to looking at John with amused curiosity. He suspects this woman may be one of the owners. Eventually, she leaves and the date continues on much as it had started. It’s pleasant and they laugh a lot. There are a few awkward moments but those go by quickly and often just lead to more joking. He learns that Mindy was born in India, though her parents moved here while she was just a baby so she doesn’t remember it. She’s currently going to Manchester University to study chemical engineering, which John finds surprising but fascinating. She’s the middle child with an older brother, an older sister and a younger brother. She has a sweet tooth and caramel is her favourite. She can’t stand raisins though. Really can’t stand them. Just the sight of them makes her nauseous.

He’s less giving with personal information, mostly because he doesn’t really have anything good to share. He tells her about his stint in the army. He tells her he has a sister though they don’t see each other often. He works at a clinic in downtown London, though he’s currently on leave. His favourite sport is football. He prefers whisky, though he likes scotch from time to time. He isn’t big on sweets and would prefer a good meal to a good dessert. Unless it’s apple pie.

They get through almost the whole date without and muss-ups but then dessert comes she brings up the one thing he desperately wanted to avoid.

“So why is it you’re on leave from the clinic? You seem very passionate about your job, good at it too. I’m surprised they’re even managing it without you.” John picks at his ice cream and tries to figure out how to go about this.

“I—well.” He takes a sip of his water with Mindy staring at him curiously, a bit of confused concern reappearing in her face. “My flatmate. He, um. He…” How does he describe it? Passed away? No, that’s far too calm to describe it. Too peaceful. He supposes he may as well just be blunt. “He died a few months ago.” A soft gasp from Mindy. “I suppose I just haven’t been able to get back in the swing of things…” He trails off poking further at his already melting, runny ice cream.

“Oh dear… Well, no wonder. Only a few months you said?” She sounds quietly horrified and John feels touched that she actually seems to care.

“Yeah. Four and half, actually.”

“Oh my…” She trails off looking at her own finished ice cream. “How… How did he…” She trails off not quite sure how to ask what she’s asking. Perhaps she doesn't feel it’s appropriate. John almost laughs remembering how Sherlock used to approach loved ones of murder victims. If he ever found out you knew someone who had died recently he would interrogate the life out of you regardless of your comfort levels.

“Suicide.” It hurts to say. Mindy inhales sharply. John thinks this may be the first time he’s said that word out loud since it’s happened. It feels… Well, not good but maybe relieving in a way. “You may have seen it in the papers actually, it was, uh, rather heavily reported on.” She quirks an eyebrow at him, not quite knowing what he’s getting at until he continues. “His name was Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.” She brings her hands to her mouth as the information seems to click in her head.

“Oh! The detective! My younger brother read about him in the papers all the time. He loved his funny hat…”

“Yeah.” John chuckles a bit at that, it comes out a tad flat but neither of them focus on it. “He wasn’t much a fan of it himself actually…” Before he knows it her hand has come back to rest on his. A gentle, comforting presence.

“They said such awful things about him in the papers and on TV. That must have been so hard on you. I can’t imagine… not only to lose a friend but to have so many people speaking poorly of him.”

“How do you know the papers weren't telling the truth?” John obviously knows everything in the papers was complete horse shit, but few others believed it. There were others, don’t get him wrong, The majority of them being people who had met Sherlock personally, people he had helped, but others – the people who hadn’t met him, who had never seen how he was, they rarely believed any different from what the news told them.

“Oh, please.” Mindy huffs looking ruffled just at the thought. “Like I said, my brother really was a big fan, he read all the papers and news articles. He would read them to the rest of us sometimes, he got so excited, so I’ve heard the stories. I don’t know much about detective work or what it takes to be a genius secret criminal but I heard the stories and the things he did and I don’t believe any one man would be able to fake all that.” She smiles slightly, remembering something. “Actually, now that I think on it, I remember reading your name in the news articles. Gosh you must think I’m so daft to not have put that one together!” He smiles a bit more, latching on to the slowly lightening mood.

“I can’t hold that one against you. ‘John Watson’ isn’t exactly uncommon, is it?” They spend a moment just smiling softly at each other, letting the air clear now that the hard part is over.

“So, tell me about him.” John quirks an eyebrow.

“Sorry?” Suddenly Mindy seems startled, like she’s accidentally said something she shouldn’t have.

“Only if you want to of course! Sorry! I didn’t mean to be pushy it’s just… If it were me and my friend had just passed they’d be on my mind a lot. It doesn’t seem to me like you have a lot of people to talk to about it so, I’m here if you’d like. To talk, that is. Gosh, I can’t seem to stop putting my foot in my mouth with you.” Her whole face has gone from pink to burning red in the length of her talking and she really does look mortified.

“Don’t worry, that was… nice. Yeah. That was a really nice thing to offer. It was just me really, I’m not use to people actually _wanting_ to hear me talk about him much. Except for nosy gits who want to know if the papers are true or not. Or reporters who want to _write_ if it’s true or not.” Mindy sits back in her chair and smiles at him again. Her face is still flushed and she still looks a bit shy and nervous but she seems more confident now.

“Well, talk away.”

And he does. My _god_ does he. It feels like a floodgate has just been released in his brain and all he’s been thinking about Sherlock suddenly comes out. Once he starts he can’t seem to _stop_ talking about Sherlock. He tells her about the day they met, the hope and excitement he had felt and how that had all come crashing down when he watched him jump from the top of a roof. He tells her about all the bits in between. How Sherlock used to wake him up to loud 2AM violin concerts or gunshots. He tells her how quiet the flat seems now and how much he misses the noise, which is odd because for most of the time they were living together John wanted to strangle him for being so noisy. He mentions the body parts in the fridge and laughs at her horrified expression, which in turn makes him laugh and she asks if he’s really serious. Of course he is. This is Sherlock Holmes he’s talking about.

At some point they leave the restaurant and relocate to the nearby park. As they’re leaving they have a small tiff about who’s going to pay, both of them insisting on being the one to do it. John does eventually win though, saying that since he was a late arse he may as well foot the bill. She smiles and gives in, making a joke about how she’ll be sure to arrive late next time so he can’t argue. It’s getting later now, the sun just beginning to dip in the sky and John is on an anecdote about Sherlock’s odd habits.

“I don’t think I’ve ever come across another grown man who took his sock index so seriously. He’d know instantly if you messed it up too, like a weird sixth sense. Whenever we’d have row I’d go in there and muss it up just to get to him.”

“My brother used to have the same sort of thing with his hockey cards. If they went out of order he would go spare.” They both laugh at the shared oddity before John finds himself rambling on.

“He was the most accident prone bloke, as well. Not clumsy, don’t get me wrong, he was bloody graceful enough he just didn’t care to avoid things you know? If he was doing some kind of mad experiment with an open flame you can guarantee I would be applying burn cream on him later. If we were chasing a bloke through London and he climbed over a fence there’s no way he wouldn’t walk away with a pile of cuts. I must’ve went through hundreds of quid worth of plasters while I lived with him.”

“He certainly sounds entertaining. Doesn’t seem like there was ever a dull moment.”

“No, there wasn’t really. Well, every now and then he would get these atrocious black moods.” He felt himself frown at the thought. “He would just curl up on the sofa and no matter what you did he wouldn’t speak or move or eat. He would just lay there till he snapped out of it. Or till he got bored and went searching for my gun.”

The conversation delves into a comfortable silence that neither of them mind. They just walk down the lit up park path, arms brushing and fingers occasionally caressing, both lost in their own separate trains of thought. Mindy is the one to eventually break it, halting their unhurried lazy stride and turning to John. The moon is just coming out and the pale light is shining in her eyes as she stares at him.

“I’ve had a wonderful night John. I’m really glad we did this.” He takes her hand in his and smiles softly.

“Me too.” And it’s true. He hadn’t expected to but he had. It had been a truly lovely evening. The conversation flowed smoothly and Mindy had a great sense of humour. She was beautiful and kind and maybe just what John needed right now. “Thanks for letting me get all that out. About him, I mean. I’m sure you weren’t expecting to listen to me prattle on this much.” She shook her head.

“It’s fine. More than fine really. I’m glad you felt you could talk to me. I, well, I would really like to talk more. Hearing about your detective friend was interesting and my brother will be positively thrilled when I tell him I went on a date with _the_ John Watson.” He actually felt himself blush at that.

“Please. No one’s interested in the side kick.”

“I beg to differ.” They both just look at each other, not quite having anything to say and yet not ready to part.

“We should do this again soon.” John finds himself saying unexpectedly. And even more unexpectedly, he  means it wholeheartedly.

“That sounds great. Just text me later on and we can plan it. You can choose the spot next time.” John nods, a dopey, happy smile on his face. “I really ought to go. I have an early class tomorrow and I don’t want to be sleeping through it.” She explains with a happy chuckle. They reluctantly say goodbye. He offers to walk her home, it is dark and it’s London after all, but she insists that she lives close by and it’s unnecessary. Before she finally turns to leave she looks at him again, her eyes twinkling with the moonlight and mischief. Before he knows it she’s leaning towards him and pressing a gentle kiss on his cheek. It’s soft and warm and feels like comfort.

“I look forward to seeing you again, John Watson.” She pulls away and without looking at him again goes to leave. After he watches her walk away and starts making the trek back to Baker Street he feels light in a way he hasn’t felt in four and a half months.

\---  

John doesn’t sleep for more then two hours that night before waking up in a cold sweat, his mouth open in a silent scream and his whole body shaking with tremors. His dream had been different this time. He had been on the roof with Sherlock, but instead of helping him or apologizing he had been yelling at him. He’d sneered at the younger man, calling him a machine, a freak, a monster and Sherlock had just stood there, taking it. Than all of a sudden John took a great big step forward and as Sherlock spoke the words ‘good-bye John,” John himself had been the one to shove him off the roof. He felt sick. Sick and shaky and exhausted yet painfully awake. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to fall back asleep tonight, so instead of lying there he stood up and moved out of his room. He considered taking a shower to wash the sweat and smell of fear off him but decided against it. Right now he just needed to forget. So instead, he went into Sherlock’s room grabbed a shirt and a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen and made his way to the sofa to set up shop for the remainder of the night. He made himself comfortable on the couch, covering himself with a blanket and holding Sherlock’s shirt and the whiskey bottle close to his chest. Flicking on the telly and finding an old episode of _Friends_ he took a swig of whiskey. It burnt his throat and the second drink made his eyes water but he welcomed it, encouraged it even. And if him holding Sherlock’s shirt up to his face so the scent of his lemony body wash and his very own unique scent filled John’s nose made him look like some sort of grieving widower, he simply didn’t care.

\---

Sherlock is everywhere. John can smell him all over. It’s warm and comforting and John wanted this _sososo_ bad. _I had a bloody awful dream_ , John tells him. He nuzzles his head into the taller man’s neck wanting to get more of that warm rich scent. God, why had they never done this before? _Mm? What was it about?_ Jesus, that voice. John loved that voice. It was deep and gravelly without sounding like a bad Batman impression. That voice would sound sexy reading a train stop schedule. _You were dead. You jumped off a bloody roof you maniac. Promise me you’ll never do that._ A pause. Sherlock’s arms around him, pulling him close. Their bodies are now completely pressed together. John can feel everything. He’s just realized they must both be naked because he can feel Sherlocks skin all over his own. It feels amazing. Sherlock’s body feels like it was made to be against his own. It’s hot and solid and John wants to taste it. _I’m not dead, John. I’m right here._ It feels good to hear. Of course he’s not dead. He’s right here, pressed up against him right where he should be. He’s right here and it was just a bad dream. _That’s not the point. Just, please, promise me? Promise me you won’t leave me?_ Another pause. Sherlock’s lips gliding up and down his neck. Shivers go through John’s whole body as the heat from Sherlocks mouth and hands seems to melt him. _I promise John. I’m not dead. I promise, I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here. Do you feel me?_ John does. He feels him everywhere. Along his neck and the bottom of his jaw, the sweet spot behind his ear only his girlfriends had ever known about, Sherlock’s warm hands tracing down his chest and the pleasant heat turning his muscles to mush. The solid heat is moving over his arse now, teasing down his thighs until they come up between his legs and suddenly the heat is too hot. John and Sherlock, the heat from both their bodies joining together and turning everything to molten lava. John is sweating and panting and spreading himself wider wanting to feel the younger man everywhere, wants the heat from Sherlock’s body to consume him, swallow him up until he’ll never be cold again.

_Promise me again?_

The heat rises. Sweat prickles his skin and Sherlock’s breath is hitting his lips, the heat from the mans mouth making his lips chap. But John doesn’t care. He doesn't care if it burns him, he wants more and more and moremoremoremore…

_I promise. I’m not dead. It’s okay. I’m right here._

\---

When John wakes up he’s sweating. His whole body is coated in it, but it’s not the cold sweat of nightmares it’s hot and insistent and seems to be coming almost entirely from between his legs where a throbbing erection is standing proudly. John sits up, knocking over the half empty bottle of whiskey, his hand still holding on tight to Sherlock’s shirt and looks at it in horrified awe.

 _Oh fuck_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s libido had seemingly dried up right along the time Sherlock had decided to go diving off Barts’ roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone and anyone that left comments and/or kudos so far. Each comment made my day and inspired this chapter to be created. 
> 
> For any of you who might be triggered by things of this nature, there is a part in this chapter where a character refers to an old case involving the sexual abuse of a child. However, it's not graphic and is only mentioned briefly.

John’s libido had seemingly dried up right along the time Sherlock had decided to go diving off Barts’ roof.

He had tried to find release afterwards, hoping it would work as some sort of hormone fuelled endorphin pick-me-up but he hadn’t accomplished it. It was a challenge just to achieve an erection, much less do something about it once it happened. Whenever he would try to fantasize, thinking of soft plush breasts, breathy feminine moans and damp heat around his cock his brain somehow always found it’s way back to reality and the breasts and moans and sex filled visions would morph into his best friend laying dead on the side walk with his own brain matter surrounding him. Needless to say, that was a turn off. John chalked it up as a failure and figured his libido would kick back up when it was ready. It wasn’t unusual, he knew. He had seen plenty of cases where significant trauma or mental illnesses such as depression, which he was sure he had been dabbling in as of late, could lead to significant decrease in sex drive. He wasn’t old enough yet to have to worry about any dysfunctions or permanent lack of sex drive and it’s not like he’d had anyone to put a sex drive to use with, so he had just put it off and didn’t give it much thought. At the time he’d had much more pressing matters to concern himself with. Such as planning his best friends funeral.

Now however, as he sat on the worn sofa and stared at his incredibly erect and positively _aching_ cock, he had no doubt his libido was back to working order. He didn’t know if it was going to last but it was definitely here now. There was no denying that.

It had been so long since he’d seen himself like this, strained and desperate and hard as flag pole that he couldn’t help but just… poke it. He actually poked it, almost as if to make sure it were real. It definitely felt real. God. He felt like some fair maiden on the morning of her wedding night seeing a morning wood for the first time, but he couldn’t help but be mystified by it. He had drank over half a bottle of whisky the night before as well, which was, well, unprecedented. He didn’t think he had ever woken up this hard the morning after drinking that much.

He supposed it made sense that his libido had chosen now to spike up again. The day before had been the first reprieve from the grief he had been drowning himself in ever since Sherlock’s death. It had felt like releasing a block in his mind while he was talking to Mindy about Sherlock yesterday. Like a latch had been released and floodgates had opened. Maybe one of those floodgates belonged to his libido. He had spent the day having lovely conversation with a lovely girl and it had felt good. That would make sense except his own awareness was rapidly coming back to him and it hadn’t been soft supple flesh and feminine touches in his alcohol induced dream. It had been hard lines and heat and _passion_. The passion he had felt in his own dream had just about burnt him.

John had just come to the realization that he loved Sherlock, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to face the fact that dreaming about his dead friend had brought his cock back to full health as well. He hears a chuckle fill the room and belatedly realizes it’s coming from his own mouth. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to continue healing him even from beyond the grave. As glad as he was to see his penis back in working order it still felt… wrong somehow. Surely dreaming about your recently passed friend and getting a hard on from it is a no go?

_Not good?_

_Bit not good, yeah._

This was indeed a bit not good. What should he even do with it? Should he get off or just… wait it out? He felt like a teen boy discovering wanking for the first time. That familiar cocktail of shame and confusion and utter horniness.

He decided to go with the horny guy move and reached into his pants to get a proper hold of it. _My God…_ John let out a sharp hiss at first contact and threw his head back, nearly bashing it off the wall. Jesus fuck did that ever feel good. It had been so long since he had touched himself, and even longer since he’d enjoyed it that just his hand resting on his engorged shaft felt like a bloody dream. Experimentally he ran his hand down and up in one smooth movement, feeling the way the hot silky skin slid as he jerked himself off. He usually didn’t like it dry, preferring lube or even spit but right now he felt as if he were seconds away from orgasm regardless of the method. Plus, he suspected that if he moved his hand off himself long enough to wet it he may _actually_ die. He continued stroking up and down, up and down. His head was swimming and he could hear his own heavy breaths filling the air. His legs were spreading wider, begging for more contact, aching for the sensation he had been denied for so long.

Updownupdownupdown.

He sped up and damn near cried at the feeling. It was electric. Hot wet heat was filling him up, rising in his body _upupupup_ until it just _blew_.

His mind circled back to the dream that had started this amazing event in the first place. That voice. _God that voice_. Just the memory of the rugged and dark lilt it had to it had him moaning. He always suspected that Sherlock would be able to get him off with only his voice and nothing else.

John would be naked save for a blind fold and Sherlock would be off to the side staring at him, observing like he always does. He would look at John and deduce his wildest fantasies. His darkest desires. If anyone would ever have been able to see that in John, it would have been Sherlock. He’d stand there watching John slowly stroke himself, _Ah-ah, not too fast now. We don’t want this ending too fast_ , he’d tease.

He’d tell him everything. Be his eyes.

_You look amazing John. Keep doing that with your hand. That’s right, stroke the top now, stroke the head. Try pressing a finger into your perineum._ And John would, because Sherlock would never steer him wrong. John copied his fantasy self and pressed his middle finger that wasn’t wrapped tight around his cock, right into the soft flesh of his perineum and gave it a little wiggle. All at once stars explode behind his eyes and he has to bite his lip to keep the sounds in. _Shh, John. Quiet now. We don’t want Mrs. Hudson to hear. Though you’re so loud we’d have to worry more about the whole street having a listen._ The sound of a zip being undone would echo through the room and his moans would be joined, deeper ragged groans heavy with arousal. _Do you hear that, John?_ He’d listen to the gentle, rhythmic slapping of skin echoing through the room and feel his own skin tingle with sensation.

_That’s the sound of me touching myself. I’m touching myself while watching you fuck your own fist. What are you thinking of John? That the hand squeezing and sliding around your cock is mine?_ God yes. _Or maybe you don’t want my hand. Would you prefer my mouth?_ Jesus, Sherlock – _My mouth wrapped around you, my tongue running along every vein. You’re big, John. I don’t know if my mouth would be big enough. I’d have to stretch it so wide, but it would be worth it to taste you._ John’s hand was moving at lightening speed now _updownupdowndup **fucking** down _god fucking-please, ugnf… _Come on John… Harder… Fuck my throat. Wrap your fingers in my hair and make me take you further. Make me gag on you._

“Sherlock… Please… Oh god!” John was actually speaking aloud now, moaning and sweating and writhing and panting. This was the first time he’d gotten off in months and fuck if he wasn’t basking in it. _Let me taste you now John. Come in my mouth._ “Ah-! Jeesu—Sherlock!” Hot, hot release flooded into his hand and John had to bite down hard on his right hand to keep from crying out and giving his landlady a real fright. The orgasm seemed to last forever and yet not long enough. Even after he had stopped ejaculating he still felt the low thrum of arousal beating through his body with every heart beat.

After the orgasm had passed and John was left sitting slumped on the sofa with his spent cock still dripping come onto his hand he felt his first healthy dose of shame hit. What the fuck was he doing? He had just had a wank (a brilliant, maddening, bloody fucking _delicious_ wank) while fantasizing about his best friend. Who was dead. Jesus.

It wasn’t like John had never let Sherlock slip into his fantasies before but it had never been like that. Before, when Sherlock had only been in the room right below him while John lay in bed at night getting himself off, he had allowed only the barest glimpses of dark curls and deep baritone moans waft their way in. Innocuous and ambiguous little glimpses that he could pass off as harmless without outright admitting he was using his best friend as wanking fodder. This time had been far from ambiguous.

It felt wrong somehow. Like he was tainting Sherlock’s memory in a way, but did it really have to mean that? Maybe this was a coping mechanism. A way of… working through his feelings. Maybe he could just rub a few out thinking of Sherlock and then he’d… what? Be able to move on? To forget about his feelings for his friend? To let go?

No, John knew that was an impossibility no matter what his endorphin filled brain was trying to convince him of. He would never truly move on or forget about Sherlock, but maybe he could at least feel better about it. Indulge himself in a few fantasies here and there and suddenly the memories and emotions he had connected to Sherlock wouldn’t be so present in his everyday life.

This could work.

His phone chose this moment to go off loudly, demanding his attention and making him startle in his chair. The sound also made his head give a twinge and he was painfully reminded of the hangover he was sure to have.

For a moment, he felt caught. Like a rangy teen caught wanking in his room by his mother. He felt his face flush and renewed shame fill him up so quick he forgot about his new found rule of not answering the phone and dove to the other side of the sofa to grab the blaring device. Though, just before he grabbed it he remembered just in time that his hand was currently coated in his quickly cooling cum.

That would have been… unhygienic.

He looked around for the nearest thing he could use to clean his hand and his eyes land on Sherlock’s white button up shirt resting snuggly next to his leg. He hesitated for a moment but the continued blaring ringtone of his phone helped him to make the decision quicker. Wiping himself off on the white button down he reaches over with his other hand and snags his angry mobile.

“Hello?”

“John! ‘Bout fucking time mate!” Lestrade’s angry voice screamed at him from the phones speaker.

“Sorry?” John asked, not as an apology but more out of confusion. Lestrade took it out of context, however.

“Yeah, you should be! I’ve been trying to reach you for a week, John. No one has heard from you in a week. A buggering week.”

“You could have just asked Mycroft. I’m sure he’s still keeping tabs on me.” At the mention of the elder Holmes brother John’s voice turns bitter and his mood goes sour. Mycroft hadn’t contacted him once since the week after Sherlock jumped. He hadn’t even attended the funeral. Bloody crummy older brother is right.

“Yeah, would do if he wasn’t ignoring my calls.” John felt a sick sort of glee that at least he wasn’t the only one being ignored. “John, do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? I’ve been expecting some ruddy fucking stranger to call the Yard and report a gunshot in Baker Street or a blonde army doctor floating in the Thames.” John felt guilty. He’d be lying if he said Greg was over-exaggerating. John had been spending an awful lot of quality time with his Browning as of late and he knew the DI’s concern wasn’t unfounded.

“I’m fine Greg. Just been busy, yeah?” It was a lie and they both knew it. They also both chose to ignore it.

“Yeah, well busy or no give me a call every once in a bit, will you? Or at the very least shoot off a text. Just to save me some piece of mind.” John felt an inkling of guilt well up in his stomach. He truthfully hadn’t meant to worry Lestrade. No matter how sore he still was over Lestrade’s role in Sherlock’s… final day, he knew the DI was heart broken over what had happened. Both of them had lost a friend that day and he also knew they were both having trouble dealing with it, in their own ways.

“Yeah, Greg. Of course I will.”

“Right, well. All is good then. I’m just glad to hear everything’s fine.” John looked beside him at the crumpled white dress shirt still smelling of lemon and covered in semen, the near empty whiskey bottle and thought back to how he had just had one of the most intense wanks of his life to the thought of his dead friend. The word ‘fine’ didn’t exactly seem to match up with the scenery but he supposed Greg didn’t actually need to know that.

“Anyhow, to make it up to me come down to the pub with me tonight.” John was about to refuse, give some half-assed excuse about how he was just too busy with other things, but honestly, a little time out of the flat might do him some good just about now.

“Um. Yeah, alright. Sure. What time?”

“Oh, uh, I’d think around seven?” That was later than John was used to going out but he figured the change of pace could be good for him. Ella would probably be proud. That thought alone nearly made him decline.

“Yeah. Sure. Seven sounds good.”

“Alright. See you then. And if I text, you’d better respond unless you want a pile of coppers barging into your flat!” John chuckled, though he knew it came out hollow. He was still staring at the come stained white button down, unable to look away from it in a strange mix of sick arousal and hot shame, and he was suddenly anxious to get off the phone.

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say Greg.” Lestrade said another quick good-bye before cutting off the line and just like that John was alone again and just like that the panic set in.

What was he doing? Sitting in a musty flat that hadn’t been aired out in months, sat next to empty booze bottles and his dead flatmates ejaculate covered clothes. _His_ ejaculate. God. He was sick. Seriously messed up. He couldn’t believe how _wrong_ this was. With a sudden sense of urgency he bolted up from the couch, grabbing the shirt, and raced off towards the laundry machine. He can just forget this ever happened. He shoved the shirt into the portable washing machine and felt a newfound determination. What the hell was he thinking before? That he could just go on wanking to his best friend and everything would be fine? Fuck no. That just… That just was _not_ on.

After the shirt was safely in the washing machine and the cycle was on he heaved a sigh and took a moment to get his head together. It was 10AM and he was meeting Lestrade at 7PM. That left him with nine whole hours to get his shit together.

First step, he decided, was a shower. He reeked of hangover and though he hadn’t seen himself yet he knew he must look like crap. So, shower it is. Then he could get some cleaning done. He left the washer to do it’s thing and started for the shower. He turned the water on, making it a tad cooler than he normally would as his skin was feeling more tender than usual due to the hangover (and the orgasm though he is _not_ thinking about that) and stripped. Once he was fully in the buff he took a moment to examine himself in the mirror. What he saw was expected, yet disappointing. He looked washed out. His skin was pale and clammy, his hair was verging on uncomfortably greasy, not at all helped by the sweat filled nightmare he’d had the previous night and it was hanging limp on his forehead. His body didn’t look bad, but it looked frailer than he could remember seeing himself in a long time.

Before the army he had been in excellent physical shape. He had played rugby all throughout his school years and somehow managed to keep up a decent workout schedule while hectically finding his way through med school. He had always had good muscle on him and during his stint in the army his body was at it’s prime. Everyday they ran drills or did training his body would be pushed to the limit and it most definitely showed. After he was discharged he had started getting a little weaker, recovering from a bullet wound will do that to you, and after he’d moved in with Sherlock he’d gained back some of the lost muscle from running around London and taking down the baddies. Sure, he may have had a few extra pounds of softness around his belly from a more relaxed work out schedule and a bit too much takeaway but he had looked good. Healthy. Now he just looked drained. His whole body was slouching and the softness of his belly was gone completely. He looked skinnier than he could ever remember being. The skinny that came from too many forgotten meals and too much remembered pain. He couldn’t remember a time he found his physical looks to be more disappointing. Maybe he should consider going back to the gym.

Tearing himself away from the mirror he stepped under the stream of water and let the hot spray wash over him. It felt amazing. Like years worth of grime was running off of him and being washed down the drain.

After he had thoroughly washed himself and no longer smelt like stale alcohol he scrubbed himself dry with a towel and wrapped the piece of fabric around his quickly slimming waist before heading up to his room to get dressed for the day.

Though unfortunately for him, his bedroom was right past Sherlock’s.

John looked over at the closed bedroom door and felt his hand itch to open it. He stopped himself. He didn’t deserve to go take refuge in Sherlock’s bedroom. Not after treating his memory like some kind of sexual fantasy. He gathered all the will power he could muster and straightened his spine in an unconscious soldiers rest and turned sharply away, marching stiffly up to his bedroom. 

 

\---

 

John had always been a tidy bloke. Even before the army had instilled a nearly OCD level of cleanliness, he had taken pride in his surroundings being tidy. When he and Sherlock had been flatmates John’s room had been the only truly clean part of the house.

 

When John had went to begin tidying up he was shocked by the amount of filth that had somehow built up inside 221B. He knew that he had let things slide a bit but he had no idea how bad it had really gotten. It had taken him two hours just to clean the kitchen and living room and another two to tackle the bathroom and his room. All in all it had taken him four hours (give or take a tad) to get the flat looking the least bit presentable again.

 

John also hadn’t realized until he went to clean that he hadn’t so much as washed a dish in the past few months. He briefly wondered how anything had gotten done at all in the flat in that time-span before the answer flashed clearly in his mind. Mrs. Hudson must’ve done it. Obvious, really. For all her moaning and groaning over being called a house keeper, she never hesitated to help him or Sherlock with the tidying or occasional meal before. John had been largely absent in the past few months, not paying much attention to his surroundings or the people in them but even then he knew that his landlady was worried over him. She knew better than anyone what he felt like. She had loved Sherlock much like a son after all.

 

John felt a fierce tug of fondness on his heart as he realized how much Mrs. Hudson had really been looking out for him. The poor woman was sure to be going through her own grief and yet she still made time to help him when he couldn’t even realize she was doing it – much less thank her for it. He really should go visit her later. He had been so reluctant to lately, knowing that he couldn’t handle her chatterbox way of speaking or her sweet well-meaning questions on his well-being but he suddenly felt as if it were the least he could do.

 

As he went about the flat doing last minute tidying that he had missed the first time around he decided he would pay Mrs. Hudson a visit tomorrow.

 

\---

 

Ever since Sherlock left, John had found himself taking the tube more and more frequently. Before he had almost always opted for a cab. Him and Sherlock had always been darting around London, needing to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible and the tube was far too much fuss. Sherlock had always hated the tube as well. He had never put it into words but John suspected Sherlock found crowds of people incredibly overwhelming. With a brain like his that’s impossible to shut off and always looking for stimulation he assumed that someplace where you’re trapped with a large number of people to deduce and observe would be mentally exhausting. It could have also just been that Sherlock preferred a more private mode of transportation. He wasn’t big on people in the first place and a quiet and secluded cab was a far better place to think and breed conducive thoughts than an overcrowding subway carriage.

 

John had personally never had an opinion. Before he hadn’t had a particularly large preference over the tube or cabs but he usually opted for the tube since it was far cheaper. Now he took the tube for a completely different reason.

 

Taking a cab was more pain than it was worth, especially the first month or so after Sherlock was gone. Every time he would get in one he’d feel off getting in on his own. Off-balance really. Sometimes he’d even look to his side expecting to see Sherlock off in his own world, or go to say something only to realize he was all alone after all.

 

Cabs made him think of Sherlock, pure and simple.

 

The only reason he had even been able to take a cab the last time was because his brain had been so focused on how late he was to meet Mindy that he hadn’t the time to ponder about time lost.

 

The tube was a safe-zone. He didn’t have any particularly strong memories tying Sherlock to that particular mode of transportation (there was the time Sherlock had ridden all the way home on the tube covered in pig blood but he hadn’t been there so it was easy enough to block out) and so it was safe enough to ride all the way to his destination without being hit with a Sherlock-trigger.

 

John was incredibly thankful for that fact now as the tube slowed to a stop pushing his lax body slightly forward in his seat. His mind was clear, the shameful guilty feeling from this morning was beginning to fade to a more manageable level and he was now eagerly anticipating knocking a few pints back in a pub with company instead of drinking cheap liquor alone in his flat. It would be a nice change of pace. He waited until the first herd of commuters had filed out of the doors before making his own departure, enjoying the slight chill in the air as he walked out onto the street and found his way to the usual pub.

 

The pub was a small walk away from the tube station and John found himself enjoying the short stroll. The weather was crisp and fresh in stark contrast to the stuffiness of Baker Street. He’s also thankful for the excuse to work off some of his excess energy. It’s been a long time since he’s gone out to the pub with a mate and even though it’s just Lestrade he feels anxious nonetheless.

 

Once he get’s into the pub he makes a beeline for the bar and immediately orders a lager. The alcohol is sure to help his nerves, he thinks. He sits and takes a generous gulp of the beer before scanning the room. It’s a small cozy sort of place. Not the type of haunt that he normally finds himself visiting, which he’s thankful for. He was never the type to go clubbing or partying, save for the few crazy raves in Uni but whenever he did go out he tended to gravitate towards the more popular, well known bars. The ones he’d have no problem finding some bird to pick up. Now, looking around at the quiet atmosphere and small smattering of people clustered together absorbed in their own little worlds he knows Lestrade chose this place purposefully. And wisely. John wouldn’t have been able to handle the frantic buzz of a large crowd right now. He used to be able to find enjoyment in large crowds of alcohol flooded bodies. He would bask in the happy buzz that washed over everyone in the room and felt himself get almost as intoxicated just by the energy in the room as the alcohol flowing freely through his system. But nowadays he just found large groups of people overwhelming.

 

He’s halfway through his first pint and lazily watching the footie game that’s being played on the TV over the bar when a hand lands firmly on his shoulder and he lifts his head to see Greg standing there, a friendly grin lighting up his face.

 

“Hey. Starting without me?” Greg greeted and raised an eyebrow at the near empty glass clutched in John’s hand.

 

“Well you did take your sweet time getting here.” Greg fell into the empty chair next to him and grimaced.

 

“Yeah, well, we got one hell of a case going on.” He waved to the bar tender and motioned that he wanted what John was having. After the bartender came over with his drink and walked away he ran his hand through his more salt than pepper hair and took a great big gulp of his pint. “He would have loved it.” John doesn’t need to ask Greg who ‘He’ is.

 

John opens his mouth to speak but really doesn’t know what to say, so instead of speaking he fills his mouth with the dregs of his beer and stares at the dirty bar top.

 

“I’m sorry I said that.” Greg’s voice is full of self-reproach and he’s still scratching his head absentmindedly. “It’s just this case has me thinking about him. More than I usually do, that is.” He takes another sigh and sip of his drink.

 

“Sometimes I feel like he’s haunting me.” The admission catches both Greg and himself by surprise. John hadn’t been able to put his feelings lately into words until just this moment. It feels good to get out. To admit that he can’t go anywhere or do anything without feeling like Sherlock’s ghost is stalking him; reminding him how empty the world really is now.

 

“Have you thought about moving out of Baker Street?” The mood between them is making both of them unusually direct and John needs another beer because of it.

 

“Can I get another one of these?” He shakes his empty pint at the bartender and thanks him as he’s passed a fresh one, the thin layer of foam on top sloshing off the side. He takes a long drink and licks the tangy foam off his top lip.

 

“Ella keeps bringing it up. Says it would help to separate myself from him. The memories of him.”

 

“It might be a good idea. It can’t be easy on you to live there.”

 

“It’s not. It wouldn’t be any easier anywhere else though. I love London and I wouldn’t be able to afford any other flat in the middle of the city, not on what the clinic pays me. I just… I just miss him Greg.” Greg nodded into his drink.

 

“Yeah. Me too. He was a good man, you know? Or, had the potential to be, at least.”

 

“You still think that? Even though he may have been a fraud?” The alcohol seems to be going straight to his head tonight and though he hadn’t meant it too, his thought’s slip out his mouth scornfully and without thought. No matter what happened Greg’s been there for him when he needed it and he can’t justify treating the DI like that. Greg however looks entirely unbothered by it and is staring at John with a look of strong determination. The look of a man who is about to voice his opinion and not feel a bit sorry about it.

 

“I know none of it was true, John. We all do. All of us that knew him – _really_ knew him. He was a good man.”

 

John gazed into his own pint, the now somber mood invading his mind. A thought had been gnawing at his mind for ages, even before Sherlock had jumped, and he figured now was as good a time as any to get some answers.

 

“You have always seemed so sure of that. That he is – was – a good man.” The whole time he spoke it was to his beer but he could still sense Greg’s eyes on him, trying to pinpoint where he was going with this. “I mean, I was too. Always have been. I shot a man for him the first full day we knew each other.” Greg shifted a little uneasily next to him and coughed pointedly. Greg knew about Jeff Hope. He knew that John was the one who had taken his life that night. He knew, but they had never spoken it out loud, both of them choosing ignorance over any sort of confrontation. In fact, ignoring undesirable facts seemed to be a theme in their friendship. “I don’t know how I knew he was a good man. I could immediately understand why I thought he was incredible; that much was obvious to anyone. I think it took a while of living with him to fully understand how _good_ he was. So, how did you know? How did you make the decision that he wasn’t just great but good?”

 

Greg seemed to take a moment. John looked up and saw the DI staring into his glass with a furrowed brow and tight frown.

 

“When Sherlock and I first started working together… He was a mess. Way worse than he ever was while you two were… together.” He trails off awkwardly, looking at John carefully, waiting for him to deny or correct his assumption. John doesn’t do either.

 

“Anyhow,” Greg continues on, “He was using all the time then. The whole first year we knew each other I don't think I saw him sober _once._ He was high functioning, that’s undeniable but it was always noticeable. He was always just that little bit _too_ on. He would be darting around the crime scene and waving his limbs around. He looked bloody _mad._ ” He shakes his head and huffs. “We had been working together for a few months and honestly I didn’t trust him a bit.” John hadn’t expected that. Greg always seemed so trusting in Sherlock’s word that it seemed impossible to imagine otherwise.

 

“Really? Weren’t you the one that started letting him in on cases in the first place?”

 

“What? No. I was only a Detective Sergeant back then. Gregson was the one that decided to let him in on crime scenes. I thought he was completely shady.” They both start chuckling and it feels good. It almost feels like the times before The Fall when him and Greg would go have a pint and vent about Sherlock until they were giggling and drunk.

 

“Sherlock _was_ shady.” John insists. He remembered thinking the same thing after he first met Sherlock. Between knowing everything about him and his older brother kidnapping him off the street he was looking mighty suspicious. The drugs bust, murder case, and history with drugs didn’t help put him in a more flattering light either. Yet John hadn’t been deterred by any of it.

 

“Yeah he was. Especially then. I think Gregson saw something in him from the beginning. She was always one hell of a judge of character. I thought he was nothing but some stupid junkie kid who was wasting his life away.”

 

“Well, one day we’re working on a case, this guy got stabbed in his house. No sign of forced entry, no witnesses, the neighbors didn’t hear or see anything unusual. We thought it was the wife at first but she had a rock solid alibi. Well you know him, he figured it all out and rushed off somewhere to ‘confirm his theory’ as he put it. Gregson tells me to follow after him and he leads me back to the guys house. I had no idea what he was up too but wanted to be right beside him in case he pulled something. He knocks on the door and he asks the wife if he can speak to her daughter. I’m getting a bit suspicious now, I mean you know how nasty he could get, and he was even worse for putting his foot in his mouth back then and I was freaking out thinking about what he was going to say to his little girl. She was just a tiny thing, twelve or thirteen.”

 

“So the wife brings her daughter out to the living room and he asks to speak to her alone. So the mom gives us some space, close enough to be safe but far enough to give a sense of privacy, you know? And the first thing he asks the little girl?” Greg’s voice sound high with disbelief, as if he’s still having a hard time believing it.

 

“Did your mother know?” Greg scoffs. “It turns out that her father had been sexually abusing her since she was little. The mother knew about the whole thing too, but I guess he was pretty heavy handed with her and she kept quiet. It’s disgusting. I can’t believe some people. So one day the kid loses it. I don’t know what made that particular day her breaking point but she couldn’t take it anymore. Killed her old man while her mother was out and when the mum got home and found out she helped her cover it all up.”

 

“So, we’ve got the mystery solved but now we have a thirteen year old girl about to go down for murdering her father. You know how Sherlock is. He always needs to be right about bloody everything. Always have the last word and all that. I think for sure he’s going to go right to Gregson and show off but instead he thanks the girl for being honest and gives her his number. Says she can call it if she needs too and not to tell anyone else what she told him. Then he walks right out of the house and drags me back to the Yard. We’re about to walk into Gregson’s office and he turns to me and tells me not to say anything, to just follow his lead. I don’t know why I listened to the bastard but for some reason I kept my mouth shut as he told Gregson he had made no progress in the case and didn’t think he’d be able to solve it. All of a sudden this bloody peacock of a man who can never seem to resist proving how superior and intelligent he is lies and pretends to be clueless.”

 

“That really worked? Gregson never found out it was bull?” John finds it hard to believe. He had only met Gregson once or twice in passing but she had seemed sharp enough.

 

“I think Gregson suspected, but she dropped it pretty quick. I think she figured out the gist of it and decided to leave it alone. It definitely saved that family a hell of a lot of trouble. That was the moment I finally saw it. What Gregson had seen in him from the beginning. That little spark of goodness in him. Lord knows he didn’t show it often but every now and then if you just knew where to look you’d see it. After that I started seeing things like that more often, little signs he was a better man than he made himself out to be. After that I started trusting him more and when Gregson left and I got promoted I continued letting him in on cases. Christ knows it was helping our department out a hell of a lot.”

 

“He always did have his moments.” John thought back to all the strange little things Sherlock had always done that seemed to show he cared. “He was never the type of person that expected to be liked and acted like a complete arse because of it. Only people that really knew him ever saw what he was really like. He was one hell of a secretive bloke.” He pauses a minute and wets his throat with his refilled glass thinking back on how little he really knew about Sherlock.

 

“Did you know I never even knew when his birthday was?” John asks lazily as the alcohol kicks it up a notch.

 

“No kidding?” Greg asks incredulously. “Hmph, come to think of it I never knew either. Seems weird really. He’s the kind of bloke that seems to do everything he can to get attention, I figured his birthday would be his favourite day of the year.”

 

John shakes his head and frowns. “No, Sherlock liked to be admired for his cleverness, sure, but he hated attention like that. Events, Holidays, get togethers. They were never his thing.”

 

“Yeah, you have a point. Parties were definitely not his scene.” Greg pauses a moment and then erupts in completely inappropriate giggles until his face is red. “Did I ever tell you about the time Gregson dragged him to NSY’s Holiday party?” John shakes his head, already smiling maniacally from the contagiousness of Greg’s laughter. “Oh Christ, I have too! So Gregson dragged him in round the middle of the party, I have no idea how she ran into him but she somehow coaxes him to come in a while, which was challenge enough. God, back then he was like a skittish cat, but anyway she not only drags him in but he’s got these huge fluffy antlers on his head and a big red –“

 

John chuckles as he listens to Greg go on with his anecdote. He orders another pint which leads to another and another and _anotheranotheranother_ until his face is red and him and Greg are giggling like mad in a taxi on the way back to Baker Street.

 

\---

 

The next few days after he went out with Greg, John feels good. He feels like breathing has suddenly become a little easier. For the first time in months he feels hopeful. He feels like he’s slowly getting his life back together.

 

On Monday he goes downstairs and see’s Mrs. Hudson. She’s overjoyed of course and clucks on and on about whatever she can think of while she bustles around her small tidy kitchen to make tea and gather some biscuits and cake she baked the other day.

 

They’re sitting down at the table sipping the sweet tea and even sweeter cake when Mrs. Hudson cuts herself off mid-speech (a mild miracle in and of itself) and places her soft hand, freckled with age spots, over Johns own and looks at him with all the motherly fondness John had never gotten from his own mother.

 

“John dear, you’re really looking so much better. I’ve been so worried…”

 

“I’m sorry I worried you,” he offers, voice full of contriteness. “I- well, it’s been… difficult. I’ve never been the best at these things.”

 

“Oh… John...” She pats John’s hand and gives it a tight squeeze. “I know you boys had something special. He was different with you; softer. That man always did need a bit of softening.” She tuts.

 

Before Sherlock left, John would have denied that the two of them had shared anything other than a strong platonic bond, though now he knew better. Before he felt ashamed of what being in a romantic relationship with another man would say about him but now he knew that his relationship with Sherlock was the best thing that had ever happened to him. They hadn’t been romantic, but they could have been. Should have been. Everyone else around them had seen how perfect they would have been, except for them. John couldn’t go back and change those things but he could hold his head high now and finally show his real feelings for once in his life.

 

“I’ve never met anyone else like him. I really don’t think I ever will.”

 

“Of course you won’t.” Mrs. Hudson deadpans. “Sherlock wasn’t the type of person you come across every time you do the shopping! He was special. But that doesn’t mean you won’t eventually meet someone else special. They just won’t be Sherlock’s kind of special.” John smiles at her.

 

“I have met someone actually.” He doesn’t quite know whether to be amused or insulted by Mrs. Hudson’s look of complete shock.

 

“Met someone? Who?”

 

“Her names Mindy. I met her a month or so ago. On the tube.”

 

“She? You’re dating a _woman_?” The way she whispers ‘woman’ makes John cringe.

 

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I do date women.”

 

“Well, yes. I know you _experimented_ a bit when you and Sherlock were just starting out but surely not now. Don’t you think it’s too soon?”

 

“Mrs. Hudson,” John sighed. “Sherlock and I weren’t together. I- I wanted to be… I think, but it never did happen.” It feels strange to admit out loud. To share with someone else the thoughts that have been brooding in his head for weeks. He doesn’t look at Mrs. Hudson now. He equally expects her to look both shocked and smug and he knows he’d deserve both of those reactions.

 

“Oh John…” She sighs and unexpectedly engulfs him in a warm hug. John startles at first, not exactly being the most affectionate man in the first place, not to mention it was a surprise attack, but her sweater feels soft and her hug is warm and instead of resisting John allows himself to give in to the motherly embrace.

 

“Oh, I always knew you two should’ve just gone for it!” She complains as she pulls away enough to slap his shoulder. She looks at him and begins to smile all-knowingly. “He liked you too, you know. I always saw it. You made him a better man and that’s proof enough of how he felt about you.”

 

John thinks about arguing; denying any possibility that he had a chance with Sherlock but when he looks down and see’s the tired smile, deep laugh lines and hopeful eyes staring back at him he doesn’t have the heart. He can’t _truly_ know how Sherlock felt about him so how he can he shut down somebody else’s hopes?

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. He made me a better man too.” They’re both silent a moment, thinking their own private thoughts.

 

“Well, enough of this.” Mrs. Hudson proclaims in her sternest (though still gentle) tone. “Have another cuppa and tell me about this new _woman_ of yours.” Her voice is flabbergasted as she giggles out ‘woman’ and John feels that same exasperation flow through him like it used to every time she would give him grief over a new girlfriend or whether he needed a ‘second bedroom’ after all. He’s exasperated and he’s sure that he’ll be made fun of lots throughout the rest of the afternoon but he shoves that aside, sits down and lets his landlady pour him another cuppa.

 

\---

 

John is restless. He’s anxious and he knows he needs to do something about it. He’s been in the flat too long, only leaving to get groceries or meet up with Greg or Mindy. He’s stopped going to therapy. He just missed a week or two, doesn’t know if he’ll end up going back. He finds himself considering getting a new therapist, one that doesn’t know his life so intimately. He could start over, pick and choose what he wants to say more carefully and keep the more tender things to himself. Ella knows him too well now. She knows when he’s hiding something or holding back. It’s exhausting, quite frankly.

 

He needs something new. Some outlet for all his anxiety. Something that can make him feel useful.

 

He knows exactly what he needs, he’s just nervous to make the first step. It seems big to go back to work. He doesn’t know how he’ll react or if it will prove to be too much for him to take but he’s running out of his savings, which were already meager to begin with.

 

His hands are shaking as he holds his phone, the dial pad pulled up and Sarah’s number already typed in and waiting. His eyes flicker upwards, latching on to the cabinet he knows is hiding a bottle of Jack Daniels in it’s depths and decides there’s no shame in using some liquid courage to make the first step. He’s using it positively, he tells himself. Just something to calm his nerves while he takes the steps to get his life back on track.

 

He sets his phone down and rescues the bottle of whisky from the cupboard. He fills a small glass halfway and swallows the bitter liquid in one go, hissing as it spreads across his tongue and throat, enveloping his taste buds. He takes a deep breath, pours himself another two fingers worth and sits back down in his chair.

 

_Might as well treat it like a plaster and just tear it off._

 

He presses the call button.

 

It rings.

 

And rings.

 

And rings…

 

“ _Hullo? John, is that you_?” Sarah’s voice erupts over the phone lines.

 

“Yeah. Course it is. How have you been?” Sarah snorts.

 

“ _Busy. Short staffed. The usual for us, you know.”_ John nodded, though he knew no one could see him, and hmmed in agreement. The clinic was notorious for being understaffed. Sarah seemed to have awful luck with finding employees and the turn over rate was startling. “ _Anyways, I know you didn’t go to the bother of calling just to check up on the clinic. How have you been, John?”_ Her voice has taken on a softer tone and John feels a rush of gratitude for this woman. When things hadn’t worked out with them romantically, John had feared the awkwardness of their failed relationship would seep into their work relationship as well, but his fear had quickly proven to be groundless. Sarah and him still maintained a friendly relationship and she had always been nothing short of professional with him.

 

“Good. Things have been good.” He lied without thinking. John shakes his head. That isn’t right. “Well, actually, things have been pretty rough.” It still seems like an understatement but he doesn’t need to divulge any more than that. That’s not what this phone call was about. “I think I’m getting cabin fever, actually. And I’m getting short on cash. I was calling to see if my position as a GP is still open or not?” Sarah sighs, loud and relieved and John feels his whole body ease, any doubts in his mind now put to rest.

 

“ _Oh, thank God! I was hoping that’s what this call was about. Of course you can come back John, there’s always room for you here. Though I still think you’re over-qualified for it.”_ John laughs, takes another sip of his drink and smiles.

 

“Somehow, I think I’ll be alright with that.” They talk more, chat a bit. They agree that John should start tomorrow. Sarah insists the sooner the better, and before John knows it, he’s promising to show up for his shift at 7am the next morning. When he hangs up he finds himself thrumming with energy. He doesn’t know whether it’s excitement or anxiety, though it’s most likely a mix of both, but he does know that this deserves a celebration. It’s a big step after all. It’s the start of John getting the scraps of his life back together.

 

First things first, every celebration needs a little liquid reward. He walks back over to the counter, where Jack has been patiently waiting for him and pours another. He takes a sip and smiles. It tastes better, somehow, than the first two had. This one tastes of success. Achievement.

 

The alcohol only seems to be fuelling his energy, filling him with that pleasant buzz of contentment that he always finds after a few sips of something strong and he finds he would very much like to share it with somebody. Months ago, John wouldn’t have been able to think of anyone to ring, too bitter at old friends for events out of their control and too sucked into his own apathy and self-pity to go find new ones. Now a name easily comes to mind.

 

He text’s Mindy, a simple message inviting her to dinner and drinks on him. Her answer comes quick, and it doesn’t take five minutes before the two of them have chosen a restaurant and time to meet up. Johns puts down the phone and grins. Everything always seemed so simple with Mindy. No fussing or twiddling around and John appreciated that.

 

He gulped down the remainder of his victory drink and started to his room to get ready. He walked straight up the stairs, not even bothering to look at any doors that led to what he knew were empty rooms. What was the point? He knew nothing was going to be behind that door, so why give it the energy?

 

Today he didn’t.

 

Today he opened his closet, pulled out the only black button down he owned and a deep blue blazer he had been gifted last year for Christmas. He wouldn’t usually have accepted such an obviously expensive gift, but Sherlock hadn’t let him refuse and eventually John had just accepted it gratefully. He had known Sherlock could afford it after all. The blazer fit him like a glove, the high quality fabric hugging and hiding him in all the right places and making it seem as if he were taller, somehow. He didn’t have any particularly fancy trousers, but he did have a decent enough looking pair of black slacks. They were a bit loose, he had bought them when he was much stockier, and they weren’t doing anything particularly flattering to his arse but he figured the blazer would be enough to distract from his other, more unfortunate clothing choices.

 

He eyed the little bottle of cologne he had splurged on a while ago and considered. Well, if a celebratory dinner with a pretty girl wasn’t an excuse to use a little then what was? He picked up the dark green cylinder and held it in front of him, pushing down the compressor he sprayed it modestly in the air and walked into it. The smell of pine and spice filled his nose and he felt the cinnamon tinged aroma cling to his skin and clothes, the artificial perfume colliding with his own scent and fusing together to create something intoxicating.

 

By the time he is fully ready and out the door he was already well on his way to inebriated and looking forward to his date. He stumbled a bit going down the stairs but caught himself on the landing. He went to giggle but he shook it off. He couldn’t act like this in front of Mindy. He had to get his act together.

 

With that thought, he felt himself sober up enough that he managed to walk from Baker Street to the underground without stumbling again. The tube ride felt long, although it really wasn’t anymore than fifteen minutes. John passed the time by looking at the other passengers. There was a group of young looking mothers, all gossiping and sharing baby advice. The introverts that sat in the back and had their eyes glued to their books and phones. There were students sitting in the back blaring their music. There was Sherlock.

 

John did a double take.

 

He looked back and saw Sherlock standing there, except he was wearing glasses and had a lip ring. John was on his feet before he knew it.

 

His heart was fluttering.

 

His veins were pumping fast and erratic through his body.

 

His breath was coming heavy and he felt like he was going to be ill.

 

“Sherlock?” The name felt like a lead weight on his tongue.

 

Sherlock looked up at him and Johns heart soared, except…

 

This wasn’t Sherlock.

 

It couldn’t be, because Sherlock had steel eyes. Blue and bright and luminous. The eyes staring back at him were nothing like that. They were brown and soft, with laugh lines around them, even though the man was clearly so young. John never knew he could be so disappointed by a persons eye colour.

 

“Sorry?” Not-Sherlock asked. John shook his head and felt his left hand clench. What was he doing?

 

“Oh, uh, sorry mate.” John apologized, backing away from the man and no doubt looking as embarrassed as he felt. “I thought you were someone else.” Not-Sherlock may have replied and he may have not. John wouldn’t have noticed either way. He was too busy racing back to his seat and berating himself. What was wrong with him? How on Earth could he actually go up to someone like that? He probably looked like some drunken idiot. John is suddenly hyper aware of how much he’s had to drink. Maybe that fourth glass of whisky wasn’t a good idea.

 

All he knew for sure was that he had to get a hold on himself. He couldn’t be doing things like this. He couldn’t start approaching every skinny bloke with curly black hair thinking it’s Sherlock.

 

Because Sherlock is dead.

 

He is dead, and dead people don’t just come back. They just don’t.

 

\---

 

Heat is flooding over John, coating his skin with slick sweat and making his blood sing. Soft lips that taste like orange are over-lapping his, occasionally emphasizing a strong suction with soft little kitten licks. John’s hands are everywhere, roaming over miles of smooth skin. His head is swimming and he can’t think, can’t do anything except _touch_ and _taste_ and –

 

“Ah- Jesus! Mindy…”

 

They hadn’t taken two steps into the flat before they collided together and Mindy pressed him up against the door. Her hands were exploring him, grazing over his chest and thighs and groin, dipping under his clothes and through his hair.

 

John didn’t think he’d make it past the door at this rate.

 

He’d been completely celibate since Sherlock left and even before that he had been dating much less. John couldn’t even remember the last time somebody had touched him, and without realizing it he had become absolutely touch-starved. The feel of another persons hands kneading and scratching and caressing him was making his blood sing in his veins, and it all seemed to be flowing down to the same area.

 

He hadn’t even unzipped his trousers and yet he was hard as hell. His prick was full of fresh, hot, flowing blood and need. He was dying to rub against something, rut hard and fast against the nearest object until he found that flood of endorphin fuelled release he was gagging for. He felt primal and strong and horny as he’d ever fucking been. Alcohol, and blood and lust were all flowing through his body making him desperately _wantwantwantwant_. And tonight, John intended to take it.

 

His left hand twitched where it was nestled in Mindy’s near black hair, giving a sharp tug and making them both gasp. He used the new found leverage to drag Mindy’s face to his, smashing their lips together. If John wasn’t so smashed he thinks he’d be dead embarrassed over his roughness. He had never been particularly rough in bed, unless specifically asked to, but then again John hadn’t felt like himself lately.

 

He isn’t fully aware how it happens, but suddenly Mindy is kneeling in front of him and his dick is surrounded by burning wet heat. He looks down and sees his hand buried deep in dark black hair and that’s all it takes before he’s shaking and gasping

 

“Ghh, Sherlock-!” The mouth around him pauses for a moment but he hardly notices, feeling completely drunk and tired and content. He does notice when the heat leaves him however, and the sudden blast of cold on his groin startles him out of his sleepy descent into unconsciousness. He looks down and sees Mindy standing up in front of him, looking out of place and deeply uncomfortable. John does some quick thinking and comes to the conclusion that she must be waiting for some form of reciprocation. He did finish embarrassingly fast after all.

 

“So- sorry.” He pants out, still feeling the exertion from his orgasm. “Want me to return the favour?” He starts smirking before he realizes that Mindy isn’t. In fact, she is frowning and looking thoroughly miserable.

 

“John, I-“ She cuts herself off and picks up her bag she had thrown carelessly on the floor less than ten minutes ago. “I think I should just go for tonight.”

 

John is confused. He doesn’t know what he could have done to scare her off so fast. The first thought that comes to mind is that she got put off by his scar but when he looks down at himself he remembers they had both managed to stay (nearly) fully clothed up ‘till now. What could he have done? Or said?

 

He can’t remember anything apart from dark black hair stretched tight over his knuckles. It had shocked him because it had been so close to the fantasies he had used to indulge in, only it was Sherlock kneeled before him with his mouth full.

 

John pauses.

 

He couldn’t have.

 

Could he?

 

Maybe.

 

Oh God.

 

He is filled to the brim with self-disgust so rapidly, he momentarily feels nauseous. He is a complete bastard. Who the fuck calls out the name of their dead best friend mid-blowjob? Him, apparently. Now he understands why Mindy is trying to bolt. Who wouldn’t? She must think he’s gone completely mad.

 

“Mindy… Listen, I didn’t mean to- I didn’t realize-“ His hasty drunken rambling is put to a halt by Mindy’s shaking head. She looks at him with the saddest most forgiving smile and John wants to cry. Wants to cry for hurting this girl who’s been nothing but kind to him. He is such a twat.

 

“Don’t.” In most contexts this word would sound harsh, like it rightly should in the current scenario, but there is no malice in Mindy’s voice. “You don’t have to say anything, John. I-I understand now I think, and it’s okay. Really. But, I think it would be best for us both if I left now.” John can do nothing but stare and eventually nod in agreement. How can he argue with something so logical right now? It’s more than he deserves in any case. John is sure that if this same situation had played out with any of his past girlfriends he would have been getting a hell of a lot worse of a reaction.

 

Mindy moves to the door but before leaving she shocks him yet again by moving closer and engulfing him in a hug. There’s nothing seductive or alluring about it, she’s not trying to spitefully tease him with what could have been, instead it feels comforting. Like how John used to hug Harry when they had been close. John feels his breath get lodged in his throat. Never in his life has he felt so wholly engulfed by both guilt and gratitude at the same time.

 

“Goodnight, John.” She says as she pulls away, still smiling sadly. “We’ll talk later, okay?” He nods again, feeling every bit the idiot anyone has ever told him he’s been (which after living with Sherlock had happened near _hourly_ ).

 

She leaves and the sound of the door closing, though just as gentle as he had come to expect things from Mindy, echoed through the flat and made John ache with loneliness. He couldn’t move for a moment, just staying stuck. Frozen to the floor with his own shame and guilt as shackles. Though they were invisible to the eye they were heavier than any steel or metal could hope to be. His mind is on a permanent rewind, replaying the same loop over and over again of what just happened. He’s already feeling slightly mournful of their relationship and it’s now lost future. Mindy had been good. Good for him. She was sweet and kind and really very pretty, even if she wasn’t John’s usual type. He had begun to feel quite fond of her as well. He knows technically they haven’t broken up yet, but how could they not? It would be too much to ask of anyone to deal with his mountain of baggage. Now Mindy would just end up feeling like a stand in for Sherlock, and would John really be able to assure her that wasn’t true?

 

Eventually he begins to get unstuck. He hadn’t had the mental capacity to put himself back in his pants earlier and his now limp penis has caught a bit of a chill. His legs are sore and stiff as he moves and although he knows it will only make the guilt in him grow and fizzle he directs himself toward the room on the main floor. He falls into the bed and the faint, rapidly fading scent of Sherlock wafts up from the sheets and infuses him with such overwhelming sadness and comfort that before he knows it his chest is heaving with sobs and his ribcage hurts from gasping for air. He is positively wailing. Never before has John Watson felt so not-himself, so out of place in his own skin. He feels like he isn’t even John Watson anymore. He had thought at times that it felt like he had a parasite in his brain, something that had just latched on and drained him of life but now he knew the truth. Now he knew that he didn’t have some make-believe parasite, he _was_ the parasite. Sherlock dying had changed him, made the strong, kind John he had always known himself to be crumble and wither with grief and in that weak time a new John had grown. A monster of his former self. He didn’t know how to go back, either.

 

How do you fix yourself once you’ve become a monster?

 

John doesn’t know. Not yet. But he will. He will because he never wants to feel like this again. He never wants to see someones face drop like Mindy’s had earlier and know that it’s because of _him_.

 

He keeps up a steady chain of similar thoughts, vowing to be better, to do _better,_ to be someone that could be used as an example of what to do instead of what to avoid ever doing.

 

In that moment, John Watson vowed to be a better man.

 

\---  

 

John wakes up with the worst hangover to ever exist. His whole head feels tight and angry, his body, though having just spent a night on Sherlock’s posh bed with 300 thread count sheets is sore and stiff and he feels absolutely exhausted in spite of any sleep he may have gotten. For the first hour or so of consciousness John is far too consumed by physical agony to think much about what happened last night, though he can still feel it just barely at the back of his head, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. In the meantime, John slowly and cautiously ushers himself out of the bed and herds himself into the kitchen. His eyes scrunch up as the brighter light of the kitchen sends a fresh shot of pain to his already tight and sensitive eyes and he gropes blindly in the cupboard for his hangover pills. He slips them in a glass of water and sips it, slipping into the lounge and dropping in his soft red armchair. The worn fabric cuddles him up and molds to his body instantly, like it had been waiting all this time just for him to sit down again.

 

He spends the remainder of the morning and early afternoon that way, curled up in his chair, unmoving and dead to the world save for a handful of bathroom and water trips. By 11:30 he’s begun to feel more himself and that is just the opening his mind had been waiting for.

 

All at once the thoughts come shooting back to him. His own mind is under enemy fire, but there’s nothing he can do because he _is_ the enemy. He feels the shame hit him yet laughs because he can’t remember the last time he didn’t feel ashamed of himself. Well, he can actually. It was before he had let his best friend die in front of him.

 

John was useless. A complete waste of a human being. He couldn’t save Sherlock, he couldn’t be there for Mindy. What good was he?

 

He gets trapped like that, glued to the spot and only able to berate himself for not doing better for not being better for not being a better man but that in itself is unproductive and makes him even angrier at himself.

 

The thing that ends up bringing him out of his mental rampage is his phone. The sound is loud and makes him groan out several expletives that would have made a sailor blush as he snatches his phone from where he had tossed it aside the night before. As soon as he sees the caller ID his stomach _drops_. Taking a big breath and shutting his eyes in mortification he answers the phone.

 

_“John? Finally! I’ve been calling and texting for **hours**. Where are you?”_ Sarah’s voice is tight and flustered and John can picture how over worked she must be. Sarah could barely find employees to fill the slots, much less have someone come in an emergency which means she’d had to take care of all the patients herself. John couldn’t believe how quickly he had managed to fuck everything in his life up so fast.

 

“I’m so sorry, Sarah. I- well I…” He hesitates for a split second. He can't say he’s hung over. That would be incredibly bad for many reasons. One of which being that Sarah knew of the addiction in his family, not only Harry’s but his fathers and mothers as well. He had shared his family life with her when they were dating not really thinking of the ramifications it could have on his job. He should have. Sarah knew of his family’s addictive tendencies and she also knew as a doctor how addiction like that could be hereditary. If he shared the real reason he wasn’t in to work today she would immediately suspect alcoholism and there would go his stable job prospect. Nobody wanted to hire a veteran with PTSD and an alcohol addiction. Sarah may not care about the former but John has no illusions over how she’d feel about the latter.

 

“Something came up. An emergency. I’ll explain it better later. In the meantime I can be at the clinic in twenty minutes.” It’s a stretch. He knows it and Sarah, who knows how far Baker Street is from the clinic, knows it but she’s desperate and they both know that too.

 

_“Fine. But only because I’ll be damned if I’m finishing this day by myself. You better have one hell of a good reason John Watson.”_

 

She doesn’t wait for his response before hanging up and John is left listening to nothing but a lonely dial tone.

 

This time John doesn’t freeze. He bolts to his bedroom, throws on some clothes that don’t reek of semen and alcohol and gargles with Listerine, not having time to properly brush his teeth. Breakfast is obviously out of the question and John grabs nothing but a water bottle as he storms out of the flat and onto the bustling London street.

 

He waves his hand with desperation, trying to hail the nearest cabbie. Usually this would take five minutes in and of itself. For some reason cabbies never seem in a hurry to stop for John but today something about him must be radiating his urgency because nearly instantly a cab is right there. He jumps in and quickly names Sarah’s clinic. He uses the in-between time of the car ride to investigate his phone.

 

True to her word, Sarah’s number is plastered all over John’s phone in the form of missed calls and texts, each one chronologically getting more and more stressed and upset. In one of them she alludes to firing him and he hopes to any God out there she only said it to try and get a reaction out of him.

 

When they arrive at the clinic John doesn’t know if he’s relieved or more stressed then ever. The last thing he wants to do right now is face Sarah but he knows he has to. Choosing to just be brave and act like a man for once, John rushes out of the cab and into the clinic saying a rushed hello to the receptionists. They say hello back but he doesn’t miss the stink eyes they throw his way and he knows Sarah isn’t the only one he’s affected by being a no-show this morning. He vows to properly apologize to the receptionists later, likely through a peace offering of coffee and some of those cute cakes from the bakery down the street the women in the office are always talking about.

 

He heads into the GP consultation office where Sarah is currently talking to a patient. He’s in his late forties and already in the hospital gown get up. He’s sitting on the examination table and seemingly getting debriefed, though Sarah’s chatter dies when John opens the door.

 

“Sorry Mr. McDerphy, would you give me a moment? I need to discuss something with Dr. Watson.” She motions towards John but doesn’t take her eyes off the patient. He nods his agreement and just like that John is getting ushered out the door and into the small office a few steps down the hall.

 

For a moment after Sarah shuts the door, all is silent. The silence is broken by Sarah’s familiar sigh of exhaustion.

 

“What are you doing, John?” He had been expecting angry accusations, passive aggressive comments, an immediate pink slip. He hadn’t been expecting the desperate, tired question. He had no idea what to say to that.

 

“I – What?” He stutters, wishing she would give him more, tell him what to say to make it right, to be better, but she doesn’t. She just shakes her head.

 

“Look John, I know you haven’t been yourself since…” She goes quiet, clearly not quite knowing how to phrase it. John is too busy floundering himself to help her out. “I know that.” She repeats decisively. “I’ve been trying to make this as easy as possible on you because I care about you, John. I really do. But I can’t do this. I can’t hire you and deal with your flippancy about office hours again. I thought…” She hesitates, not seeming sure if she should continue but Sarah has never been anything other than brutally honest. It’s one of the things John has always respected about her and he can’t bring himself to resent it now. “I thought that now with Sherlock gone you would be a better employee. I figured he was the thing distracting you from coming in. But if you’re going to make a habit of being a no-show, let me know now so I can find someone else for your job.” Johns stomach sinks. He feels nauseas and tired and he still has that bloody headache. Everything seems like its moving so fast and John can barely keep up but he has to do _something_.

 

“I want this job.” He wants to make that very clear. She needs to understand that right off. John remembers how hard it was to find a clinic that would hire him when he moved back to London and he’s only gotten older and more damaged since then. If Sarah fires him now he may as well go seek out Sherlock’s old homeless network, because as charitable as Mrs. Hudson can be he can’t make rent without a job.

 

“I want this job and I promise this won’t happen again. I – I don’t even know what to say about this morning.” He admits honestly. He’s never been a good liar and he knows he couldn’t pull it off now.

 

Sarah snorts and it sounds crueler than John remembers her. “I know what to say; don’t drink the equivalent of a liquor store on a work night.” Her tone is disapproving and all knowing and John is suddenly hit with how very _bloody_ sick he is of people acting like they know all about him. He feels his gut clench painfully and sweat prickle his hairline and eyebrow. He feels like he’s going to throw up any minute but he _can’t_.

 

“I’m not an alcoholic.” It’s the only thing he can think of to say. He needs her to know that.

 

“Prove to me that you can handle this, John. Show up tomorrow, on _time_ , or you’ll need to find another place to work.”

 

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Sarah.”

 

“Just don’t make me regret this, okay John?” And with that she leaves the office and John takes his first breath of the day.

 

\---  

 

John’s first day is a blur. Between the fuzz of the hangover and the over-flow of emotions this morning, John is on autopilot. He spends the day sitting behind the familiar desk, in the familiar office talking to the same familiar patients that always frequented the clinic. He listened to complaints, did check ups and wrote prescriptions. At lunch he walked over to the small bakery a block away and got an assortment of cakes and coffees for the receptionists. They are far more friendly to him for the rest of the day and smile at him when he leaves for home.

 

When John gets walks up the steps and into 221B he doesn’t think. He doesn't berate himself for being the massive bloody _fuck up_ that he is. Instead, he heads to his bedroom and slides open his end table drawer revealing the heavy gun within.

 

He picks it up. Feels the familiar weight sitting in his hand. Runs his hands over the metal. Smells the gun powder clinging to the steel. He inhales, breathes it in. He wants to absorb it. All of it. The gun powder, the danger, the bullets. He remembers holding this gun everyday in Afghanistan. He would take it apart, clean it and then put it all back together again. He would always feel more put together himself after handling the gun. He looks over it, the sweaty grip smudged with dirt and the worn trigger. It could use a cleaning, he thinks.

 

He picks it up and takes it with him, along with a small wooden box from his end table and takes it to Sherlock’s room. He sits down on the bed and lays everything out before him. The gun, and later all its pieces, in a neat line and all the cleaning supplies and oils he uses on it. He goes slow, softly scrubbing and wiping, caressing the cold metal as he cleans it. It feels familiar and therapeutic and John feels himself unwinding, slowly but surely. He had done this everyday when he had been fresh out of the army. He would sit in that God-awful bedsit with only the grey walls and his gun as company. John had thought that had been the end for him; the end of the road. He had been oh-so-pleasantly surprised when that hadn’t been true. Somehow his drab grey life had been brought back to violent technicolor, all because of one man. John had thought that would be it. He’d live out the rest of his life in Baker Street with Sherlock going on cases and adventures until their old age. Now that was all gone. Crashed and burnt. Now John was right back where he started. He almost wishes he had just ended it at the bedsit. Finished himself off early. The he wouldn’t know _this_ feeling. The feeling of knowing how amazing things can be, how accepted and at home he had felt and knowing that it was never coming back.

 

When he’s finished, his hands are sore and oily and his legs feel stiff from sitting cross-legged so long. Still holding his freshly cared for gun he stretches out and lays down on the bed. He breathes in and the citrus smell of Sherlock and gunpowder and oil have mixed together. John breathes it in deep, completely intoxicated.

 

John hasn’t wanked off to Sherlock since the couch incident. He’d had the occasional, very brief, fantasy about his friend but he snuffed those out quick, not wanting to indulge. Tonight John doesn’t even think about it as he breathes in Sherlock and danger and _sex_ and doesn’t at all mind when he feels his cock twitch.

 

He slides his hand _down down down_ his chest and stomach. His hand comes to a stop right in front of his groin and he kneads down, rubbing himself slow and firm. Each press of his palm feels like small sparks erupting under the thin skin of his genitals and John is completely _lost_ to sensation.

 

His mind latches on to the scent of lemon gun powder and imagines all the other times these two scents have intertwined. What comes to mind is races through back alleys and mad dashes across roof tops. He thinks of a crisp white button down stretched tight over a pale heaving chest. Looking over at Sherlock and seeing how he had looked, that first night after Angelo’s. The man’s eyes had been bright, seemingly absorbing all the light in the room and bouncing it back right to John. His dark unruly hair had been more wild then ever, windblown and tangled. John had been desperate to brush through those tangles. Preferably with his fingers and his face pressed tight too Sherlocks.

 

He thinks of darker times. Times when it hadn’t just been lemon and gun powder dominating his smell but the sinister sharp scent of chlorine. He closes his eyes and he can see it now.

 

Moriarty leaving the room, walking slowly, antagonizing them to the last _second._ He remembers Sherlock. How he had tracked Moriarty’s every step with the Browning, only dropping his stance when the door had closed tight.

 

Then he had been all hands.

 

The desperate greedy way in which he _tore_ that vest off John had been everything he had never known he’d wanted. Sherlock had looked at him then as something precious, something worth protecting and John had never had anyone look at him like that. That was the moment when all his doubts about Sherlock’s emotional capabilities had faded. They had to, because no sociopath, no matter how deceptive and talented, could ever fake what he’d seen on Sherlock’s face that day.

 

How he had dropped to his knees to take the vest off.

 

The way his head came just to John’s waist level.

Those pink, plump cupids bow lips had been parted, Sherlock was panting too hard to fully close it. John hadn’t minded a bit. Now that he thought back on it he wondered how it would have felt to push that puffy bottom lip down with his thumb. To feel Sherlock’s saliva slicked lips part for him.

 

At the time Sherlock had looked desperate. John wonders if he would have let John play with him. Sherlock had been so restless, pacing up and down the pool, waving that gun around like a toy. John could have put that energy to much better use.

It would have been so easy. He would just reach forwards and _yank_. Pull his hair until his eyes were watering and he was begging for John to let go. John wouldn’t. He would grip tighter, wouldn’t be able to resist making Sherlock whimper. He’d replace his thumb with three fingers, than four. He’d make Sherlock suck and lick them until they were dripping wet and coated in his hot spit. John wouldn’t hold back after that. He push himself against Sherlock’s lips, coating them in his come, claiming those lips as _his_ before slamming in and making the younger man swallow him in one go. In John’s mind Sherlock wasn’t used to having cocks slammed down his throat. He would gasp and gag. His eyes would be red and filled with tears, his chin would be coated with saliva and John would just smile. He’d smile down at his pretty debauched boy and tell him how good he was being.

 

Just as John was getting to the climax, his balls tightening and hiss cock pressing hard against the back of Sherlock’s throat he would hear the _click_ of the door opening. Sherlock would get startled, try to pull away but John wouldn’t let him. Not when he was so close. He’d pull Sherlock back, forcing him to impale his mouth on John’s swollen cock and the feeling of Sherlock’s throat straining and stretching around his cock would send him _flying_.

 

John gasps sharp and tight as he comes hard in his own hand. The orgasm hits him like a wave and makes his limbs feel tingly, and when the shame hits, he’s almost prepared.

 

Tears prickle his eyes, threatening to build and build until they fall in thick rivulets down his face but John doesn’t allow them too. He uses every ounce of British stiff upper lip and stoicism to keep the tears at bay. He refuses to cry in this bed twice in a row. He’s not that pathetic. Or, rather he is but refuses to act like it.

 

He feels saturated in his own disgust. He doesn't know when his mind got so twisted and corrupt but he can’t deny he isn’t the same man anymore.

 

He gazes at the gun still held tightly in his right hand. Slowly he brings it closer, guiding it right between his lips. He closes his eyes, but not before checking if the safety’s on. It isn’t.

 

How easy it would be, he thinks and let's the fantasy wash over him. He imagines pulling the trigger, runs through that split second of adrenaline and fear and _ohmygodwhatdidIjustdo_ that John imagines he would feel if he did it. It would only be a second of unpleasantness and then _bam!_ All his problems would be irrelevant. Making amends to Sarah, groveling to Mindy, forgiving Greg, getting his life in a semi-presentable state. None of that would matter. It would just be over. No more worries, no more loss, no more grief. He briefly wonders if Heaven is real; and if it is would he and Sherlock meet there?

Probably not. John had never believed himself a saint and figured his double digit body count wouldn’t do him any favours with the big guy. He didn’t know about Sherlock, but he would probably hate Heaven anyway. He would probably say it was boring.

 

John smiles around the gun.

 

How nice it would be.

 

\---

 

John wakes up and everything is grey. This feels all the worse because it makes him realize that things had been better lately, and now it’s all come crashing back down. He has a metallic taste coating the inside of his mouth and he realizes he had fallen asleep with the gun still clasped in his hand. It’s a wonder he hadn’t blown his brains out overnight.

 

Somehow, he doesn’t feel as lucky as he knows he should.

 

He makes it on time to work, in any case. Sarah nods approvingly and she is much nicer to him then she had been the day before but John knows he is nowhere close to making amends for the day before. He’s still got a long way to go to proving himself.

 

The thought makes him feel even more exhausted, if that’s possible.

 

The day itself goes relatively smoothly. No patients die or barf on him, so John considers himself lucky. It goes smoothly but slowly. Each hour seems to last triple the time and by the time his shift is over he feels as if the day might as well have been a week.

 

On the way home he considers stopping off at his and Sherlock’s favourite Thai place on the way to Baker Street. He decides in favour of takeaway and ends up ordering his favourite of green curry and spring rolls but also finds himself asking for mango curry and hot and sour soup. He hates mango curry and hot and sour soup but it had been Sherlock’s favourite so he had ordered it on impulse. He decides not to correct his order. Sherlock’s smell is practically non-existent in Baker Street now and John thinks that this will at least make Sherlock’s presence cling a bit more to the flat.

 

He walks home and feels numb. He feels like a robot that’s been too overwhelmed with data to the point it’s blown a fuse. Right now all of John’s fuses are flipped off and he doesn’t know if they’ll ever be fixed.

 

He gets to the awning of Speedy’s when he finds out his quiet night of takeaway and sadly wanking in Sherlock’s bed will have to be delayed. Instead he feels his appetite slip away and his body crumble in guilt as he looks ahead and spots Mindy waiting for him on his doorstep. She’s staring at her shoes, a large manila envelope held in her hands. She’s seemingly deep in thought but as though sensing John’s presence she looks up and their eyes lock.

“Hey.” John starts, because it’s about fucking time he says something. Mindy relaxes slightly.

 

“Hi.” Her voice is soft and almost gets swallowed up by the wind. John forges ahead and unlocks the door, holding it open as Mindy steps in after him and he follows her up the stairs. Once they get in to 221B and it’s just the two of them. John starts to feel nervous. He’s never fucked up with somebody in such an insulting and well… creepy way. He doesn't even know where to begin his apology.

 

“Look, Mindy. I’m sorry. What happened last time was… horrible. I – I’d had too much to drink, I think,” the admission hurts but it’s _true_ and Mindy deserves the truth. “I wasn’t thinking. Couldn’t think. I just… I just wasn’t thinking. It didn’t mean anything. I’m so sorry.” He’s getting repetitive and not making much sense. He’s always been terrible at the communication aspect of relationships and clearly trial and error wasn’t making him any better.

 

“You have every right to tell me to stuff it and walk out of here. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” He wouldn’t. He’d understand and smile and wish her the best because _no one_ deserved to be stuck with him as a partner. He would break up with himself if he could. “But I like you a lot. You – you’ve helped me so much. Been so kind and sweet, you deserve better than me.” John stops. He planned to say more though he didn’t know exactly what yet, but the look on her face stopped him. She looked gutted. Sad. Her eyes were redder than usual and looked irritated from crying. John was more confused then ever. Even when he tried to fix things, to do everything right he still managed to fuck everything up.

 

“I’m so sorry, Mindy. I never meant to hurt you.”

 

Mindy looks at him and John finally puts it together. He feels a familiar feeling of dread creep over at him and wonders at what it says about him that he finds feeling dread ‘familiar’. Mindy doesn’t look sad. She doesn’t look disappointed. She looks like John. Guilty and ashamed and heartbroken. John wants to reach out to her. Tell her it will be okay, everything’s fine, it’s all okay. But it won’t and it’s not, so he ends up saying nothing while waiting for this beautiful, _young_ girl in front of him to tell him what’s making her look so broken.

 

“John…” She began. “I’m not here to get an apology. I’m here to give one.” With how horrible she looks John’s not surprised, after spending so much time in it’s company John knows what guilt induced misery looks like, and Mindy was a walking billboard for it.

 

“What could you possibly have to apologize for?” John understands how she’s feeling but he doesn’t get _why_. He can see that she’s sorry, that she feels awful about something she feels _she’s_ done and though he can understand how that feels he has no idea what Mindy could have done to invoke that feeling in herself. She’s been nothing but kind since the beginning. John’s the fuck up.

 

“There’s no easy way to tell you this. I don’t think you’ll like me very much after I do.” She sounds resigned. She’s already accepted her fate. John recognizes the resignation he’s experienced so often himself but it’s not helping his bemusement in the slightest. He wishes she’d stop beating around the bush, then he immediately feels hypocritical for it. Not like he could do much better.

 

He wishes he could tell her that it doesn't matter. That no matter what she’s done John won’t mind. But John knows better. He’s not as naïve as he used to be and he’s been bitten and burned by far too many people to have such blind faith in them anymore. Sherlock had been his last exception to that rule.

 

“Mindy, just tell me. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.” He means it, one way or the other.

 

Mindy lifts her head from the ground looks him right in the eye.

 

“I haven’t been honest with you.”

 

“About what?”

 

“I’m not a student at Manchester University. And I didn’t study engineering.” She says it all so matter-of-factly as if this is all normal. As if her admitting to lying about such a huge part of her identity isn’t a big deal. But John see’s her hands trembling around the envelope. He remembers first meeting her on the subway, how her trembling hands had been the thing that had made him soften toward her. It has the same effect now. At least he knows that was real.

 

“Then what are you?” John swallows and feels his body straighten, unconsciously going into a soldiers rest. He needs all the armour he can get for this conversation.

 

Mindy takes a deep breath. Her fingers are picking at the envelope. John thinks he can see a small tear forming.

 

“I’m a journalist.” And with those three words John finally understands. He thinks of every moment since they’d met starting with the tube station. How much of that had she planned? Was their meeting even accidental or had she arranged that? John feels sick. He needs a drink.

 

“Unbelievable.” John says the word softly, sounding in disbelief himself even though suddenly everything makes more sense then ever. He had known having a young girl chat him up like that was unrealistic. His father had always told him if something seemed too good to be true, that’s often because it _was_. John supposes he should have listened to that.

 

“I know you won’t want to see me anymore, but please just listen first.” She waits for him to object, to say something but John doesn’t know what to say anymore. He’s so tired and words never seem to do him justice.

 

“I didn’t plan this. I didn’t lie to you about everything either. I am a big fan of you and Sherlock. I read about all the cases on your blog and the paper. I even wrote a few…” She lifts the envelope and looks at John as if he were an active volcano about to explode. John doesn’t have the energy to explode. Doubts he ever will again, really.

 

“I’m a big fan, in any case. Or I was…” She trails off, getting lost in her head before finding herself and shaking it off. “When Sherlock jumped off Barts’ the papers all attacked him. It – it made me so angry! I was such a big fan of the two of you. You did good work, meaningful work that helped so many people. Then he died and they all started attacking him. And you. I wanted to do something. To make it different, but I’m not exactly well-known in my field of work. My boss wants me to write about make-up and shopping and silly things you hardly need a degree to write. Then I saw you, on the subway and it all just _clicked_.” She takes a deep breath, collects herself and continues.

 

“I saw you and you looked so sad and I couldn’t imagine. If I felt so horrible about what the papers were saying, how must you have felt? I thought it was fate. I could meet you, find out what Sherlock had really been like and then I could write an article. Some amazing exposé about ‘The Truth of Baker Street’ or something.” She sounds passionate, John has to give her that. At the very least he knows this wasn’t an act. He got the feeling Mindy wouldn’t be this convincing of an actor.

 

“So what changed?” John’s voice is calm. Monotone and lacking emotion. Mindy looks surprised by his reaction and takes a minute to reply. When she does she looks horribly embarrassed.

 

“When… When you said his name…” Her face is red and her voice is scratchy. “I knew it had gone too far then. I – I think it finally hit me that you don’t need some no-name journalist to write an article about you. I think before I was telling myself it was all with good intentions, you know? I was doing it to help you and the publics memory of Sherlock. But when that happened… I just felt like I was manipulating you. I didn’t realize how, well how much he had meant to you. I didn’t know, John.” She hold onto his gaze, stressing her point with her eyes. “I just didn’t know.”

 

Emotions are bubbling all through John. He can feel them under his skin and clogging his brain. He knows he should be feeling something. Anger, hurt, betrayal. Some formula of all three? But right now he was just knackered. Completely and utterly exhausted with _everything_. He just wanted things to go back to when they used to make some modicum of sense. Back to the days where his best friend wasn’t sleeping eternally six feet underground and where pretty young girls weren’t blood thirsty reporters.

 

“I think you should go.” He hadn’t known he was going to say it, but he agrees with it whole-heartedly. For better or for worse, he needs to be alone right now.

 

Mindy doesn’t put up a fight. Just nods and walks to the door. She drops the envelope on the couch on her way out but John won’t notice until at least two days from now, when he’s finally woken up from his drunken stupor. He doesn't notice her walking out the door either and he most definitely doesn’t notice her last, soft apology she gives him before she walks away. Out of John’s life, likely forever. Just like everyone else before her.

 

Good riddance.

 

People have only ever hurt John anyway. He doesn’t need them. All he needs is the one friend who’s never let him down. He walks over to the kitchen cabinet he has been frequenting and pulls down his good old friend Jack Daniels.

 

A third of a bottle later and John couldn’t even remember why he had ever been depressed. He couldn’t remember anything at all.

 

It was perfect.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you got to the end and enjoyed please feel extremely free to leave a comment or kudos. I love to see how my writing is being received so feedback is like gold to me.


	3. Chapter 3

To all current and future readers, 

Life After Death is not abandoned but currently in a slow-paced re-writing process.   
I dropped this story for a while because I found myself losing the direction on it I had originally set out with. I am currently in the process of revising and editing it so it better reflects what I was trying to present the first time around.   
If you are patient and willing to wait I recommend adding it to your ‘read later list’ although I understand if you’d rather just bypass this work. If you’ve chosen the former, thank you very much for your patience and I sincerely hope you enjoy the finished product, though I have no idea when it will be completed. If you’ve chosen the latter, I also thank you for at least taking the time to read this and I hope we will cross paths again in the future so you will be able to better enjoy my finished works. 

Thank you and I hope to get back to you very soon with a far better story then I originally set out with. 

~ M

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! Is it getting hot in here or is that just John? Thank you so much for reading on through to the end. I only have the future of this story vaguely planned out in my head but I’m planning on there being around 3 chapters of this length. The second chapter is already about half written and will hopefully be finished soon.   
> Mindy is my first proper OC and so I would really love to hear what you all think of her and your opinions on anything else so far. I love feedback.   
> This story had no beta and so I would really appreciate it if you could comment any spelling or grammar errors. I’d also be extremely happy to hear any comments or feedback.


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